Disclaimer: The characters, places, and story of The Lord of the Rings are the property of J.R.R. Tolkien and consequently of the Tolkien Estate, with select rights by Tolkien Enterprises. I'm only borrowing them for a little while. :)

And yes, the switch from past to present tense is deliberate. Each chapter is supposed to be Boromir's recollections of the events that took place, and when it switches to present tense, that is Boromir thinking back on them. Hope that doesn't cause too much confusion! :-)

The Folly of the Wise

"Strangers from distant lands, friends of old. You have been summoned to answer the threat of Mordor. Middle-earth stands upon the brink of destruction. None can escape it. You will unite, or you will fall. Each race is bound this fate, this one doom." Lord Elrond's words hung heavily in the still air as he paused before speaking again. "Bring forth the Ring, Frodo."

I pricked up my ears and I watched the young halfling, Frodo, as he slowly, almost reluctantly, stepped forward. He took a small, gold band from his pocket and placed it on the stone pedestal in the center of the courtyard. I heard gasps and whispers around me, and I leaned forward to closer examine this thing -- the Thing that could overthrow Sauron and forever rid us of his ever-present threat. Beside me, I heard Ottar, a man of Laketown, whisper, dread in his voice, "The doom of man!"

No! I thought.  Not the doom of man! The salvation of man!

"So it is true," I said softly, more to myself than anyone else. But as I noticed the questioning stare of Elrond and the wizard, Gandalf, I continued, louder. "It is a gift! A gift to the foes of Mordor. Why not use this ring?

"Long has my father, the steward of Gondor kept the forces of Mordor at bay by the blood of our people are your lands kept safe. Give Gondor the weapon of the enemy. Let us use it against him!" I could not hide the eagerness of my voice; surely they saw the truth of my words? Surely they realized that it was hopeless -- not to mention mad -- to attempt to destroy the Ring!

But hardly had I finished speaking than another man, a Ranger, protested. "You cannot wield it. None of us can. The one ring answers to Sauron alone. It has no other master."

I smirked disdainfully. "And what would a Ranger know of this matter?" I did not bother to keep the scorn from my voice. The Ranger opened his mouth as if to speak, but instead lowered his eyes.

An Elf, the Prince of Mirkwood, jumped up suddenly. "He is no mere Ranger. He is Aragorn, son of Arathorn. You owe him your allegiance."

I was momentarily speechless as I turned to this so- called Aragorn. "Aragorn?" I repeated incredulously. "This... is Isildur's heir?"

"And heir to the throne of Gondor," the Elf added. I glared at him, as Aragorn spoke in Elvish, a language I did not know. I assumed that it was something along the lines of, "Sit down," for the proud Elf slowly did so, not taking his eyes off me, meeting my glare.

"Gondor has no king," I informed him firmly. "Gondor needs no king. I walked back to my chair and sat down, closing my eyes for a moment to keep my temper under control.

The wizard, Gandalf, once my brother's tutor, stood up. "Aragorn is right," he said. I guess that he looked at me, but I did not bother to look up. "We cannot use it."

When I did raise my head, I saw Lord Elrond nod. "You have only one choice." He paused, scanning the members of the Council. "The Ring must be destroyed." I sighed in exasperation.

Gimli, the dwarf, stood up. "Then what are we waiting for?" he bellowed. I straightened up as if to stop him as he grabbed one of his companion's axes and struck the Ring with all his strength. I glanced at Frodo: the young halfling winced and recoiled as though the blow had physically hurt him. To my relief and surprise, the gold band remained perfectly intact, while the axe was in pieces. A dwarf helped the astonished Gimli to his feet, as Elrond said, "It cannot be destroyed, Gimli, son of Gloin, by any craft that we here possess. The ring was made in the fires of Mount Doom. Only there can it be unmade. It must be taken deep into Mordor and cast back into the firey chasm from whence it came."

So they were going to do it. They were going to destroy the Ring!

"One of you must do this."

I barely heard Elrond's last words. My mind screamed at them in despair and I could not suppress a sigh of anguish. Fools! How could they be so blind?! Did they not see that this was madness - to destroy the only weapon that we have against the Enemy? They, who call themselves the Wise, they cannot see their own folly!

I spoke again, trying to control my fury, to keep my voice calm, in one more desperate plea. "One does not simply walk into Mordor. Its black gates are guarded by more than just orcs. There is evil there that does not sleep. And the great eye is ever watchful."

As I spoke, I locked eyes with the young Frodo. He met my gaze with his wide, azure eyes. I could see dread and pain clearly in their crystalline depths, although outwardly his face was calm. It appeared that I had convinced at least one member of the Council. After staring at me for a few moments, however, he straightened his shoulders and set his lips in a firm line. Have I not fully convinced you yet? I shall.

"'Tis a barren wasteland, riddled with fire and ash and dust. The very air that you breathe is a poisonous fume. Not with ten thousand men could you do this." I shook my head. "It is folly."

Once again, that Elf prince, Legolas, stood up. "Have you heard nothing Lord Elrond just said? The Ring must be destroyed!" I felt my blood boil again. Who was he to speak thus? A prince, yes, but only of the forest of Mirkwood. Gondor is far greater, far more powerful. I opened my mouth to reply, but Gimli, the dwarf, beat me to it.

"And I suppose you think you're the one to do it?" he roared. Legolas did not answer, but his eyes glinted in silent fury. The other Elves of Mirkwood stood up in wrath, as well as the rest of the dwarves.

Then I decided to step in, to try one last time to convince them. "And if we fail, what then?" I demanded. "What happens when Sauron takes back what is his?"

My voice could barely be heard above the din the Elves and dwarves were making. I heard Gimli's voice rise above the others. "I will be dead before I see the Ring in the hands of an Elf!" This was answered by the Elves of Rivendell -- save Master Elrond -- standing up and joining in the dispute. I also was in the middle of it, arguing with that fool wizard. I heard Gimli again: "Never trust an Elf!"

Suddenly, over the deafening noise of our argument, a small, trembling voice spoke up.

"I will take the It! I will take the Ring!"

I froze in mid-sentence, as did everyone around me. The tiny voice of the young halfling had somehow carried over the loud noise of the argument, and now everyone - myself included - turned to stare at him. Frodo's eyes were wide and he seemed as shocked at his words as we were. But - to my astonishment - he did not shrink back, but continued, softly. "I will take the Ring to Mordor. Although...I do not know the way."

His words hung on the air. It was so silent that I could hear an eagle's cry high above us. No one moved.

Then, the wizard, Gandalf stepped forward and laid his hand on Frodo's small shoulder. "I will help you bear this burden, Frodo Baggins," he said. "As long as it is yours to bear."

There was silence again, until: "If by my life, or death, I can protect you, I will. You have my sword."

Of course, it was that so-called Heir of Isildur, Aragorn. He stepped forward and stood behind Frodo. A shorter pause this time, before Legolas stepped forward as well. "And you have my bow." He was closely followed by Gimli.

"And you have my axe." The Elf prince looked as though he were about to say something, but after glancing at Elrond, remained silent. Frodo looked a bit bewildered by all the volunteers, though he did seem relieved when Gandalf and Aragorn spoke up.

Then, I stepped forward. "You carry the fate of us all, little one," Frodo looked up at me with an unreadable expression. "If this is indeed the will of the council," I looked around, "Then Gondor will see it done." I could not help but send a rather smug glance toward Aragorn, but either he did not notice or chose to ignore it.

"'Ere!" a voice suddenly shouted. I turned around in surprise and saw Samwise, Frodo's servant, rushing forward to stand by his master's side. "Mr. Frodo's not goin' anywhere without me," he said firmly, folding his arms across his chest. In amusement, I looked at Lord Elrond, hoping that he would allow the halfling to join as well. He was smiling -- something I had not seen him do the entire time I had been in Rivendell.

"No indeed," he said with a chuckle. "It is hardly possible to separate you -- even when he is summoned to a secret council and you are not." The halfling turned a bit red and I saw Frodo smile reassuringly at him. It was obvious that these two shared a special bond -- like brothers; like my own brother, Faramir, and I.

Suddenly two other voices rang out again. "Hoy! We're coming too!" It was two more halflings, rushing into the courtyard to stand beside Frodo and Sam. "You'd have to send us home tied up in a sack to stop us," one (whom I had learned earlier was named Meriadoc) stated firmly.

"Besides," put in the younger one (Peregrin). "You'll need people of intelligence on this sort of mission... quest... thing."

I stifled a laugh as Merry promptly replied, "Well that rules you out, Pip."

These truly were amazing creatures, these halflings. They seemed to have some sort of magic about them; they were capable of drawing a smile to even the most reluctant face.

Elrond spoke again. "Nine companions." He seemed to be musing over this. Automatically I straightened up, and felt the others do the same. "So be it. You shall be the Fellowship of the Ring."

I held my head up proudly and glanced at the others. Aragorn's face was expressionless and Gandalf seemed to be in deep thought. Legolas and Gimli were pointedly ignoring each other and looking in opposite directions. Frodo still seemed a little bewildered, and Sam was whispering something in his master's ear, which brought a smile to Frodo's lips. Merry was grinning, and then Pippin said cheerfully, "Great! So, where are we going?"

I shake my head in amusement as, after a long pause, I hear some scattered chuckling from the others. This will be a very interesting journey, with the halflings along. I would certainly like to get to know them better. In Gondor, they are only a legend -- the Pheriannath, they are called sometimes. Most people do not even believe they exist. My brother Faramir would enjoy their company very much. He is one of the few who adamantly believe all the old tales. I will have much to tell him when I return.

Young Pippin is already asking about supper, receiving no reply to his earlier question. Seemingly out of nowhere, Merry produces an apple and hands it to his younger cousin. Yes, this will be a very interesting journey indeed.

To be continued...

Folly of the Wise ~ Part Two

The journey from Rivendell did not seem real for the first part of it – at least, until we reached the Misty Mountains. There, it truly began to sink in, for the first time, I think, that we were going on a perilous journey…one from which there might be no return.

I forced myself not to think of such melancholy things, and instead focused my attention on learning more about those who traveled with me. Despite my first misgivings about that Ranger who called himself the Heir of Isildur, and the rather arrogant Elf prince, Legolas, I tried to do the honorable thing and treat them with respect.

Aragorn, the Ranger, is more and more earning that respect. Even I have to admit, he is noble and brave. We encountered a small rockslide when we had first begun to climb the Misty Mountains, and I believe that without Aragorn’s assistance, some of us, at least, would have been killed.

These halflings - or hobbits, as they prefer to be called - continue to amaze me. Their ability to go without food for extended periods of time (that being, for them, more than a few hours) is practically non-existent, and yet they are able to bear the hardships of travel – which they have not experienced before, I know – better than many Men I have known. And their almost never-ending cheerfulness and ability to make light of a difficult situation has kept all of our spirits up.

Merry and Pippin, especially, seem to be equally fascinated with Men as I am of them. While Frodo and Sam have the tendency to isolate themselves from the rest of the Fellowship at times, Merry and Pippin eagerly engage in conversation about anything and everything. I have never been good with children, but their innocence and wide-eyed wonder is very much like a child’s, and it both amuses and puzzles me. They have absolutely no training in self-defense or hunting, which was evidenced this afternoon, when we had paused for a rest somewhere in the middle of the Misty Mountains. Merry and Pippin endeavored to have a playful sparring match, using the short swords they had apparently been given by Aragorn earlier in their journey.

The attempt failed miserably when the two ended up nearly slicing each other’s heads off. When it became apparent that the safety of the entire Fellowship was in danger, I decided that it was high time these lads learned the proper ways of sword fighting.

“Merry, Pippin,” I called, walking over to them and narrowly avoiding being sliced in half by their slightly wild swords. I raised up my hands in self-defense. “Do you think you two can stop trying to kill each other long enough for me to give you a lesson in sword fighting?”

The two lowered their swords and looked at each other a moment, before turning to me. “I think we can spare a few minutes,” Merry said with a teasing sparkle in his eye. Pippin grinned and nodded. “But I warn you, Boromir,” he added. “Merry and I are some of the best swordsmen… er, hobbits in Middle-Earth! Wouldn’t want you to get hurt.”

I laughed and ruffled his hair. “I think I’ll be all right.”

We found a larger bit of open space for our sword fighting, and I waited for Merry and Pippin to get ready. I spotted Aragorn sitting on a nearby rock, smoking his pipe and watching.

“Perhaps you would like to assist me in coaching these two imps?” I asked him, astonishing even myself. “I think that it may be a job too great for one man alone.” I could see a quick look of surprise flash across Aragorn’s features, before he covered it so quickly that I wondered if it had been there at all.

“I’d rather stay out of the fighting, actually,” he replied with a grin. “Those hobbits look rather dangerous. I’ll sit safely on the side-lines and watch.”

I returned his smile. “Coward,” I muttered in jest. Whatever his faults, Aragorn is no coward. That I know.

Merry and Pippin seemed to be debating something together, speaking too low for me to catch the words. With a sigh, I turned around to see Frodo sitting on a higher rock, staring at nothing that I could see, seeming to be in deep thought. His eyes held a distant look in them, one I had seen before.

Behind Frodo, Sam was cooking some sort of meal, chattering cheerfully to his master all the while. Those two had been much too somber of late, I decided.

“Frodo, Sam,” I called. Frodo snapped out of whatever trance he had been in, and looked down at me.

“Yes, Boromir? Something wrong?”

I smiled and shook my head. “No, nothing is wrong. I am about to give Merry and Pippin a sword-fighting lesson – ”

“They certainly need one,” I heard Sam mutter. Frodo chuckled. Good! Perhaps they would forget their cares for a few minutes, at least.

“Would either of you like to join? I believe I’ll need all the help I can get, trying to manage those two.”

Frodo glanced back at Sam, and I could see that he was torn in two. His eyes are so strangely mirror-like, I can read any and all emotions that his face does not show. Part of him wished to join the fun, I think, and the other part wanted to stay where he was and think, or worry, or whatever it is he does when he is alone.

He opened his mouth to answer, but just then, Merry and Pippin finished their debate and turned to me. “Ready!” they cried simultaneously. I glanced back at Frodo with a shrug. He smiled, a real, true smile, which I had not seen in days. “I think we’ll have to decline,” he said. “At least until after Merry and Pippin have burned off some energy. You’re on your own, I’m afraid.”

I groaned in mock-despair and I heard him snicker behind my back as I turned around to face the two whirlwinds who went by the names of Merry and Pippin.

“All right,” I said, walking up to them. “Before we start sword-swinging, we must get into the proper position.” I stood behind them and putting my hands over Pippin’s much smaller ones, I helped him hold his sword properly. When I was satisfied that his hands were in the correct position, I moved on to Merry and did the same.

Then, it was time to get their lower body into correct stance. That task proved more difficult than the first. “All right, now – Pippin, your feet need to be a bit farther apart…no, not that far! There. That’s perfect – don’t move. Merry, your feet are too close, too. There, a little farther… good!” With a sigh, I stole a glance at Aragorn and found that he was grinning, no doubt quite amused by my difficulties.

Squaring my shoulders, I turned back to Merry and Pippin. “Now I’m going to teach you how to move,” I began, but was immediately interrupted by Pippin. “But you just told us not to move!” I heard several snickers behind me and I sighed again. “Yes, Pippin, but that is just so that you stayed in the correct beginning position –”

“Beginning?” Pippin groaned. “You mean, there’s more than one?!”

I was beginning to believe that this was the craziest thing I’d ever done.

“I’m not going to teach you all of them,” I assured him. “Only a few basic ones.”

Satisfied, Pippin said no more, and he and Merry listened attentively while I taught them the different defensive and offensive maneuvers. By the time they were ready to begin the actual sparring, the greater part of an hour had been taken up.

“All right, now,” I said with relief. This was the part that I enjoyed. “We’re going to begin. Pippin, you first. Ready?”

The young hobbit jumped forward with such boyish eagerness that I wondered what I had gotten myself into. He had a wide grin on his face, obviously enjoying the prospect of showing his fighting skills.

“Into position,” I ordered. He obeyed immediately, putting both his feet and hands in the proper position. Much to my surprise, he remembered them both excellently.

“Go!” Aragorn yelled suddenly, and without hesitation, Pippin obeyed. I found myself quickly parrying blows that reined on me from all sides – Pippin was deceptively quick on his feet. In the background, I heard Aragorn, Frodo and Sam laughing, no doubt greatly enjoying the performance. “You’ll pay for this, Aragorn!” I shouted, having difficulty containing my own laughter. “You get to teach them next time!”

When I had finally disarmed Pippin, being careful not to hurt the small person, I called a pause for a moment to catch my breath. Sitting down next to Aragorn, I watched as Merry and Pippin dropped their swords and climbed up the rocks to where Sam and Frodo were eating.

“They are a strange folk,” I said, half to myself. “I do not know if I’ll ever be able to truly understand them.”

Aragorn chuckled. “Strange indeed,” he agreed. “But they do grow on you, do they not?”

I nodded. “Aye, and they never cease to surprise. ’Twould be a very dull journey without hobbits along.”

“And quite a hungry one, without them to pack all the necessary foods.”

I laughed, listening to Merry and Pippin joking playfully with Frodo and Sam, and still managing to devour their food in astonishing speed.

Aragorn and I sat for a few minutes in silence, waiting for Merry and Pippin to finish eating. Watching the Ranger out of the corner of my eye, I began to wonder if perhaps he could be the Heir of Isildur, and the King of Gondor. Our people have not truly believed that a King would ever come for generations, but perhaps the times are changing.

But my thoughts were interrupted as Merry and Pippin suddenly jumped down from the rock, landing on top of me and sending us both into a pile on the ground. Groaning, I disentangled myself from the two hobbits, and slowly stood up.

“That hurt much more than it should’ve,” I grumbled to Aragorn. “I’m not as young as I used to be.”

Aragorn did not reply, save a small chuckle, and I sighed, turning to the two young halflings that were practically bouncing with energy.

“Let’s try this again…”

***

After repeated attempts that lasted nearly an hour, we finally made some progress. These two young hobbits surprised me with their quick learning abilities and excellent memories. I have trained young soldiers before who did not make half as much progress in even a full day of practice.

“Two – one – five,” I instructed, giving Pippin another lesson. He blocked my blows excellently, but he was still forgetting one thing…

“Move your feet,” Aragorn reminded him. He did, and there was a tremendous improvement as he went on the offensive and I was the one parrying blows.

“That’s good, Pippin,” Merry congratulated him.

“Thanks,” Pippin returned, and I turned to Merry. He quickly swallowed the bite of apple he was chewing and deflected my blows, remembering to move his feet. He preferred to stay on the defensive, but occasionally he would give me a few strokes.

“Good, that’s very good!” I encouraged them. They both grinned, and we started over again with Pippin. These hobbits improved by the minute! I did another round with Merry, and then it was back to Pippin once more.

I tried to be careful and avoid hurting them, but as our swords clanged together, I accidentally pricked his hand. He yelped and dropped his sword. “Sorry!” I cried, moving forward to help him.

But instead of receiving my help, Pippin kicked me in the shin! “Ouch!” It was my turn to yelp, and lowering my sword, I rubbed my bruised leg. That was a grave mistake.

Suddenly my sword was on the ground and I was being tackled by two blurs of color, which I guessed were Merry and Pippin. After wrestling me to the ground, the two imps began tickling my sides. Their small, nimble fingers sought out every ticklish place I had, and showed no mercy.

“For the Shire!” Pippin cried. “Get him, Merry!”

I could hardly hear them over my own laughter, and I heard Aragorn laughing as well in the background. “A little help, Aragorn?” I managed to gasp. I caught a glimpse the Ranger, shaking his head with a rather cruel smile. Merry suddenly jumped on my stomach, sending all the air out of my lungs.

“Pippin, get him!” he shouted. “Ah, he’s got my arm! He’s got my arm!”

Holding Merry’s arm for dear life, I struggled to get away from these two pitiless hobbits. Despite the pain in my chest thanks to Merry’s flop, I was laughing so hard, I had tears in my eyes. What magic did these creatures possess, that could brighten the darkest hour? I could even hear Frodo laughing, and I was willing to put up with this tickling-torture if only to raise his spirits.

At last Aragorn got up to come stand over us. "Gentlemen," he began sternly. He reached down to grab Merry and Pippin by their collars, but before either of us could blink the tables had turned, and the two halflings had flipped Aragorn neatly on his back.

"Ha! Serves... you right!" I panted, laughing, as he groaned and tried to get his breath back.

But suddenly, I felt the camp go still. Gimli stopped grumbling to Gandalf, and Merry and Pippin stopped shouting. I stood up, keeping my arms on the two halflings’ shoulders. In the distance, I could see a dark shape, moving swiftly towards us.

“What is that?” Sam asked, fear evident in his voice.

“Nothing,” Gimli replied gruffly. “It’s just a whisp of cloud.”

I shook my head. “It’s moving fast…and against the wind.”

“Crebain from Dunlend!” Legolas cried.

Aragorn suddenly took control. “Hide!” Suddenly the camp was a flurry of frantic activity. Frodo grabbed his and Sam’s packs and dragged them off the rocks, hiding beneath a large one with Aragorn. Sam put out the fire and took the other packs, crawling beneath another rock for safety.

I did not see where the others hid, for I was concentrating on keeping Merry and Pippin with me and getting under cover in time. I could hear screeches and the flapping of wings, and at the last moment, I dove under a bramble bush, dragging Merry and Pippin with me.

Lying on my back, I stared through the leaves of the bush and watched as a large flock of black birds flew over the camp. Were these the spies of Saruman? It would be clever, indeed, to use birds for such work. The creatures circled the camp several times, and I did not doubt that they had seen us. Yet another evil pursuing our company!

When the birds had passed, we all slowly crawled out of our hiding places. Merry and Pippin broke away from me and ran to Frodo and Sam to make sure that they were all right. I watched as the black form faded into the distance, before disappearing entirely.

“Spies from Saruman,” Gandalf announced grimly. “The passage south is being watched.” The Fellowship gathered round, and he looked at each of us in turn. “We must take the Pass of Caradhras.” All heads turned to look up at the large, snow-covered mountain, not far distant.

For once, Aragorn was the first to argue with the old wizard. “We cannot attempt the Redhorn Gate!” he protested. “It is too late in the year – the weather will be against us.”

As usual, when one disagrees among a group, an argument is soon to follow. I decided to stay out of it, not knowing what other choice we had, save to try the Gap of Rohan. I sat down on the rocks beside the hobbits.

“We’re not going to try that mountain, are we, Boromir?” Pippin asked me.

I shook my head. “I don’t know, Pippin. Aragorn and Gandalf are debating it now. But I do not see that we have much choice.”

Merry sighed. “And all because of a flock of birds. Isn’t there anything in Middle-Earth we don’t have to fear?”

I patted his shoulder, well understanding his frustration. “Not much, I fear. But cheer up; with your newly acquired sword-fighting skills, there shan’t be much in Middle-Earth that will stand in your way.”

Merry grinned and to my surprise, he leaned into me, burrowing beneath my arm to rest his head against my side. I was completely dumbfounded when Pippin did the same, nestling comfortably against me and using my arm as a blanket.

Glancing beside me at Frodo and Sam, I saw them watching me with amused smiles. I looked back down at the two hobbits curled up against me, and I saw with surprise that they had fallen asleep. I am not used to such shows of affection; the men of Gondor are hard and disciplined, training themselves to avoid showing emotion.

But these hobbits unrestrainedly display every kind of emotion: fearful, depressed, playful, joyful… and trusting. A much wider exhibit of feelings than any Gondorian soldier shows; save my brother, Faramir, perhaps.

The argument between Aragorn and Gandalf ceases, and even Legolas and Gimli have stopped their bickering. All turn to look at me, a hardened soldier, with two sleeping hobbits nestled against me. A peace falls over the company, and Gandalf smiles. “We will rest, before attempting the Pass.”

Legolas wanders away to stand perfectly still on a rock, keeping watch, I suppose. Gandalf settles himself down and lights his pipe again, and Gimli goes over to inspect his pack. Aragorn lays down on the ground, hands clasped behind his head, and is asleep within minutes. This is the first time I have seen him do so without signs of fear or concern.

Frodo and Sam nestle down in the blankets close to me, one of Sam's arms thrown protectively over his master, who burrows his head comfortably beneath Sam’s chin. They also drop off to sleep quickly, and soon, it is only Gandalf and myself awake.

Gently, I shift the sleeping hobbits so that I can lie down on my bedroll. They make no sign, except to burrow in closer to me. Pulling the blanket over us, I sigh and look up at the sky. Though tomorrow our road will become darker and more perilous, today, I am able to sleep without care. The last thing I see, before sleep takes me, is Legolas coming to sit beside Gimli, one hand companionably on the dwarf’s shoulder, and nearby, Gandalf, smoking his pipe, smiling at me.

The hobbits have worked their magic once again.

To be continued...

The Folly of the Wise ~ Part Three

 I have never liked the snow.   Even in Gondor, which does not get much of it, I have never enjoyed it. Faramir, when he was younger, used to play in it, pelting me with snowballs and building what he called, ‘snow-men,’ complete with Gondorian clothes. Though I would join him occasionally, I never took great pleasure in it. That accursed mountain gave me all the more reason not to. Snow, snow… it was everywhere! I suppose I should not have been surprised; it is late in the year and of course Caradhras has always had an evil name, known for its cruelty and fierce snowstorms. We have not encountered storms yet, but more than enough snow. We had just begun to climb the mountain that stood between Caradhras and us and the snow was up to my shins. Gandalf led the company, Gimli followed behind him, then Legolas, Merry, Pippin and Sam, myself, Frodo, and Aragorn trailing behind. Frodo had been up with the rest of the hobbits earlier, but he dropped back to speak with Aragorn. I watched out of the corner of my eye as Frodo quickened his pace to catch up with the hobbits.

Just as I was about to turn away, I saw the small hobbit slip on a hidden patch of ice that had tripped up Pippin just moments before. He lost his balance, fell, and began to roll down the mountain, too tired to stop himself. Aragorn ran forward with a cry, and I too, moved as if to help him up. But something in the snow caught my eye and stopped me.

I picked up the Ring, still hung on its fine Elven chain, lying in the snow.

I barely heard the sounds of Aragorn helping Frodo up as I held up the Ring, staring at its perfect shape and the beautiful golden waves created by the light. I was unable to blink or turn away…I could only stare at the lovely gold band hanging from the chain in my hand.

“Boromir…” How strange. It seemed as though I could hear the Ring speak. “Boromir…” This time I was sure that the Ring was speaking to me. ‘What do you want with me?’ my mind asked, and I heard the Ring chuckle lightly, like the soft purr of a cat, soothing and gentle.

“Your name means ‘Faithful Jewel,’ does it not?” the Ring asks softly, with a sweet voice like a woman's.

‘It does.’

“And you are faithful to your country, are you not? To Gondor? You would do anything to save it… is that not true?”

I felt my heart skip of beat. ‘It is,’ I answered slowly. ‘But what can be done? If there is still hope left, I cannot see it.’

The Ring purred happily again, and seemed to vibrate on its chain. “Hope is before you. You hold it in your hand, as you know fully. Use Me to save your fair city! How the armies will flock to your banner as you drive the hosts of Mordor away and restore the glory of Gondor! Take Me away from this Halfling who is too blind to see what he could do with Me. You…I have chosen you to be my Bearer now. To you I will give absolute power and wisdom, the Kingship of Gondor… Just put Me on.”

My other hand began to slowly reach up toward the Ring. Unable to stop myself, I could only watch in suspense as it moved toward the golden band…

“Boromir,” I heard Aragorn call. But I hardly heard him. Vaguely, as if through a dream, I heard my own words.

“It is a strange fate that we should suffer so much fear and doubt, over so small a thing,” I murmured, not realizing that I was speaking my thoughts aloud. “Such a little thing…”

“Boromir!” said Aragorn again, more sharply this time. I was jerked out of my reverie, and became aware that everyone was staring at me. I blinked and looked up at Aragorn, my eyes wide.

“Give the Ring to Frodo,” the Ranger commanded in a low voice. Still moving as though within a dream, I looked down at the small halfling standing before him, and slowly approached. When I was within a foot of them, I could see mingled wariness in Frodo’s eyes… surely he could not distrust me? My heart clenched painfully as I suddenly realized what I had just been doing, and I wished that I could throw myself down at Frodo’s feet and apologize.

But the more prideful part of me would not allow it. Instead, I found myself saying, “As you wish.” I spoke lightly, but inwardly, I was groaning with frustration at myself. “I care not,” I added, holding out the Ring to Frodo.

The hobbit snatched the Ring from my hand, distrustful still. I tried to give him a reassuring smile, but he would not look up at me. I became aware of Aragorn’s piercing stare, and I looked up.

The Ranger’s stormy green-grey eyes were hard and dangerous, and I could see his hand on his sword hilt. Surely, there was no need…? I met his stare for a moment, the boastful, proud part of me still in control. After a moment, I could bear it no more, and instead of appearing weak, I gave a snort, as though I truly did not care.

Then I forced a humorless chuckle and ruffled Frodo’s hair, trying to assure him that it was all right, that I would not betray his trust. I hoisted my shield onto my back again, and turning, I went back to the others.

They were tensely watching still, and when we continued again, everyone was silent. No one spoke until we stopped for the night at the foot of Caradhras. As was to be expected, Pippin was the first to break the silence.

“I’m hungry,” he announced, as brightly as though nothing had happened. With that, the spell was broken, and instantly, the old argument between Legolas and Gimli that had been going on since we’d left Rivendell began all over again, although this time, they mercifully kept it quiet.

My watch was the first, and Gandalf had decided to share it. I grumbled silently about this at first, believing that no one trusted me any longer – and merely because I had but touched the Ring? – but he did not even look at me, or so it seemed, and simply sat, smoking his pipe in silence at the edge of the camp, and within an hour, it appeared that he had gone to sleep.

Sometime during the middle of my watch, I noticed that Frodo was shivering violently, despite being practically buried beneath several thick blankets, and nestled against Sam, Merry and Pippin. I watched him for a few moments, hoping that he would warm up and settle, but instead, his shivering simply got worse. I could hear his teeth chattering.

I quietly crawled over to him and pulled the blankets up closer around him, but still he shivered. I removed one of my gloves and placed my hand on his small forehead. It was slightly too warm and damp with sweat, and I frowned in concern. I knew that Frodo had scarcely recovered from a near-fatal wound when we left Rivendell, and the cold, snowy conditions on Caradhras probably were affecting him more than the rest of us.

Undoing the clasp of my fur-lined cloak, I slid it off my shoulders and draped it on top of the other blankets already covering Frodo. His shivering died down to small trembles within a few moments. I was still concerned about his slight fever, however, and I gently picked the small hobbit up, making sure that he was still warmly covered in the blankets and cloak.

I carried him back to the place where I had been sitting, and sat down, leaning my back against the cold rock behind me. Frodo’s eyes opened slowly, and I could see, even in the dim light of the campfire, that they were just slightly unfocused and bright from fever. Blinking a few times, he slowly focused on me, and his eyes widened in alarm.

“Boromir?” he gasped hoarsely. “What are you doing?” 

With a pang of remorse, I immediately realized what was troubling him. “Do not fear, little one,” I whispered comfortingly, gently stroking his pale cheek with my thumb. “You have a slight fever, and I was just making sure you were alright.”

Frodo stared at me a moment, as though trying to decide whether or not to believe me. Then, evidently deciding to trust, he nestled back down in my arms. He closed his eyes, but I could tell from his uneven breathing that he was not yet asleep.

I looked around, hoping that someone would awake and prepare him something for his fever, but no one stirred. I sighed, and looked back down at the little hobbit in my arms, to find him staring at me again.

“How are you feeling?” I asked softly. Frodo frowned slightly, and shifted in my arms. 

“I feel… I feel a little ill,” he answered at last. “But it is not too bad, only a sore throat. I’m sure that I just need a good night’s rest…” A quiet laugh escaped me, cutting off his words.

“Oh, no you don’t, Frodo,” I said. “You need more than that. Though I do not doubt that it is merely a cold, I will take no chances. I’m going to wake up Aragorn; he knows many herbs –”

“No, Boromir!” Frodo cried, his voice low and hoarse. “Poor Aragorn has been so concerned for all of us lately, he never gets any rest. I’m fine. There’s no need to wake him.”

The voice of the object of our discussion stopped my words of protest. “You are correct, Frodo,” Aragorn said with a smile, getting out of his sleeping roll and coming over to sit next to us. “There is no need to wake me, for I am already up.”

Frodo sighed and lowered his eyes. Aragorn smiled and patted his small hand; I could see the fondness he held, as we all did, for this small, brave halfling. “Do not worry, Frodo. It is nearly my watch, anyway. I appreciate your concern, though,” he added with a slight hint of a tease.

Frodo smiled slightly, and Aragorn turned to me. “What ails him?” he asked. I told him of Frodo’s fever, despite the hobbit’s weak protests that he was fine. Aragorn frowned, and placed a hand on Frodo’s forehead, brushing back the dark curls. Frodo pursed his lips and resigned himself to the fact that he was going to be tended to, whether he liked it or not.

“I still have some athelas in my pack,” Aragorn said after a moment. “I’ll go fetch some and brew some tea to mix it into.” He smiled again, and with another pat of Frodo’s hand, he left. Judging by the hobbit’s slight cringe, I assumed that the athelas did not taste pleasant.

It took a great deal of convincing from Aragorn and I before Frodo would swallow the athelas tea. After that, the fever receded, and he no longer trembled. It was not long before he had fallen asleep again.

“Do you think his illness is serious?” I asked Aragorn softly, after a long while of silence.

Looking down at the sleeping hobbit in my arms with a fond smile, Aragorn shook his head. “Nay,” he whispered. “I think that ’twas merely a small cold. With warmth and the athelas tea, it should be gone by tomorrow.”

There was silence again, broken only by Sam’s soft snoring. I smiled. That hobbit never failed to fall into a deep sleep when we rested, although he usually awoke at the slightest stir from Frodo. How he did it, I will never know.

Strange, I thought suddenly, that Sam did not wake when Frodo began shivering. And he’d barely stirred at all when I’d picked his master up, nor had he reacted at all to our voices.

As though sensing the object of my thoughts, Aragorn smiled almost sheepishly, and suddenly, I understood. “Did you slip something into Sam’s drink at supper tonight?” I asked suspiciously, raising an eyebrow.

Aragorn chuckled softly. “He needed the sleep. I’ve watched him; he’s not slept at all for days. And he will need all his strength for tomorrow’s climb.”

I shook my head with a smile. “Perhaps we should do the same for you,” I mused. “I’ll be sure to mention it to the hobbits in the morning.”

“We could do it for you, as well,” Aragorn retorted. “Do not act innocent. I have watched you, too, Boromir.”

Now it was my turn to look sheepish. “I have slept,” I protested weakly. But I knew from Aragorn’s grin that he did not believe me. I sighed and looked back down at Frodo. His pale, Elvish face was peaceful, and the small frown of worry that always marred his youthful features was smoothed away. I smiled with relief; it was comforting to know that the hobbit escaped from his worries and burden at least once in a while, even if it was only in sleep.

“I’m going to put him back to bed,” I whispered to Aragorn, who nodded, taking his pipe from his pack and lighting it. I will never understand that; the men of Gondor, for the most part, do not smoke, and I do not see the appeal in it. I tried once, when Pippin offered me his pipe and weed, but very nearly gagged within the first minute of using it, much to his and Merry’s amusement.

I carefully laid Frodo back down in his bedroll, making sure not to disturb Merry or Pippin, who slept soundly beside him. I had no such fear for Sam, assured now that he would sleep until morning. Frodo barely stirred as I wrapped the blankets around him, but I heard him sigh softly, and Sam’s arm immediately curled protectively over his master’s side. As I was about to turn away, I heard a whispered, “Thank you, Boromir.” I turned back around, but Frodo had buried his face in the pillow, and his deep, even breathing assured me that he was asleep.

I smiled as I returned to Aragorn, and found that the Ranger was watching the hobbits and smiling, as well.

“Perhaps I should take one of the hobbits to Minas Tirith with me,” I said, mostly in jest, but with a touch of seriousness. “They would certainly cheer my father.”

Aragorn smiled and took a puff of his pipe. “That they would,” he agreed. “They could be pets.”

I chuckled softly. “Yes, they would make very fine pets. They are certainly food-motivated; perhaps I could teach them to do tricks!”

We both laughed, and I felt a growing companionship with Aragorn. He seemed willing to forget about what had happened that afternoon and start anew, as was I. In this strange Fellowship of diverse cultures, it seemed to me that the only two Men should form a friendship.

We sat in pleasant silence for a long while, Aragorn puffing his pipe quietly. Without realizing it, I suddenly yawned. Aragorn looked at me with a smile.

“Take some rest,” he said, giving me a pat on the shoulder. “Your watch is over now.”

I was about to protest, but suddenly, I realized that I was indeed, very tired. Yawning again, I nodded, mumbling something that sounded unintelligible, even to me, and walked sleepily over to my bedroll. I flopped down gratefully into it, and pulled the blankets up to my chin, pleased to have a chance to forget my worry and cares for a while. It was not long before I fell asleep, and remembered nothing more until morning.

***

The next day, after a hearty breakfast provided by the hobbits, we began to climb Caradhras. Of the first day of our climb, nothing much was to be said. Frodo’s fever had disappeared entirely, and although he was tired, cold and wet like the rest of us by that evening, there were no lingering effects, and he seemed perfectly fine.

It was on the second day that things began to worsen. Caradhras does not have an evil name for nothing; the snowstorm that engulfed us was fierce and unrelenting. The snow was up to our waists, and so Aragorn and I carried the hobbits, two each. I kept Merry and Pippin pressed close to me, trying to keep them warm and sheltered from the howling wind with my cloak. They did not complain, but they were too cold to talk, and by the afternoon (or as near to it as I could tell, with the sky grey and cloudy), we were all depressed and melancholy.

But only Legolas, the Elf, was not disheartened. I suppose that was because he was able to walk over the snow, instead of being sunk in it up to his waist. He trotted lightly ahead of us, and I couldn’t help but grumble silently to myself. Gimli, trailing behind and leading Bill, the pony, voiced his grumbles aloud, even over the howling wind.

Legolas, well ahead of us, suddenly stopped and turned. “There is a fell voice on the air!” he cried over the wind. I strained my ears, and I could indeed hear a faint voice, chanting something in a foreign language.

“It is Saruman!” Gandalf shouted, just as a sudden rumble sounded loudly above us. We looked up to see a large group of boulders tumbling down towards us. Everyone quickly pressed close against the side of the mountain, and thankfully, no one was injured.

“He’s trying to bring down the mountain!” Aragorn shouted over the wind. “We must turn back!”

“No!” Gandalf yelled back. The fool! Is he trying to kill us all?

Gandalf climbed out onto a snow-buried rock and raised his staff, shouting some sort of chant. It mingled with the first voice, chilling my blood even more than the snow and wind. I felt Merry and Pippin press closer against me, no doubt as unnerved as I. Everyone watched in silence, wondering what the wizard was doing.

Suddenly, the clouds grew darker, and a thick, blinding stroke of lightning hit the top of Caradhras, dislodging even larger boulders and gathering up snow as they plummeted down towards us. I saw Legolas jump forward and push Gandalf against the side of the mountain, as we all did the same. Then, there was a great roar, and when next I opened my eyes, we were buried under snow!

For a moment, I could not tell which way was up. I still felt Merry and Pippin clinging to me, and from somewhere in front of me, I heard the sounds of someone escaping from the snow. I began to burrow in the direction I hoped was upwards. Thankfully, I had chosen right, and within a few minutes, Merry, Pippin and I had broken the service and were gasping and choking on snow.

The rest of the Fellowship – including Bill the pony – were already out and doing the same. I looked down at Merry and Pippin, taking in their bright red noses and cheeks, snow-covered hair and faces, and my heart ached for them. I am not usually moved to pity, but these hobbits have the ability not only to display their own emotion, but also to evoke it in others.

I tried to warm them with my cloak again, though it was covered in snow, and I looked up at Gandalf. “We must get off the mountain!” I pleaded over the wind. “Make for the Gap of Rohan, and take the west road to my city!”

“The Gap of Rohan brings us too close to Isengard!” Aragorn protested. Gandalf said nothing.

“If we cannot pass over the mountain,” Gimli spoke up, his beard white with snow. “Let us go under it. Let us go through the Mines of Moria.”

Something grew in Gandalf’s eyes that I had not ever seen there: fear. Still, he said nothing, and the rest of us watched tensely. I had heard of Moria, the great Dwarven-city of old, and it had nearly as much of an evil name as Caradhras itself. But I could see where Aragorn was correct: the Gap of Rohan was too close to Isengard, and we could not possibly hope to continue on Caradhras. But where then would we go?

Then at last, Gandalf spoke. “Let the Ring-bearer decide,” he said slowly. “Frodo?”

Everyone turned to look at the small halfling, who stared at Gandalf in surprise. It did not seem fair to place such a decision upon Frodo; he already had enough cares on his mind. I saw him glance at Sam, no doubt taking in his wind-burned nose and cheeks, and chattering teeth; and out of the corner of his eye, I saw him look back at Merry and Pippin, as well.

Finally, he turned back to Gandalf. “We will go through the Mines.”

Gandalf nodded slowly, as though Frodo’s words were sealing some doom. “So be it.”

For myself, I supported Frodo’s decision. Surely the Mines could not be more deadly than Caradhras or the Gap of Rohan, and at least they would be warm. Gimli, also, was pleased with the verdict, and did not scold Bill the entire way down – I even heard him praise the little pony once.

It was a long and weary descent, but by the next day, we had at last reached the foot of Caradhras. We rested for a while, and when we started again, I looked back at the cruel mountain that had defeated us.

It glimmers maliciously in the winter sun, as though amused by our efforts to conquer it. It almost seems to laugh at us as we turn our backs, and trudge wearily after Gandalf.

I can only pray that the Mines will not be so cruel.

To be continued...

The Folly of the Wise ~ Part Four

At the end of the second day we stopped and made camp in a secluded area at the foot of the mountains. Gandalf gave everyone a mouthful of some Elvish cordial he called miruvor, which brought new strength into our weary limbs and hope into our hearts. Sam and Pippin together cooked a meal for us—though we saw the crebain birds again, we were too weary and cold to care if they saw us or not—and after we had eaten, we all sat silently around the fire, each deep in our own thoughts.

I was sitting beside Frodo, and heard him say softly, in response to a muttered comment from Sam, “I wish I was back in Rivendell, too, Sam.” He sighed. “But how can I return without shame? I have pledged my life to this Quest, and I would not be proved unfaithful.”

I was surprised at the grim determination I saw in Frodo’s face, and heard in his voice. I had made the mistake of judging him by his childlike size to not fully understand the enormity of what he had pledged to do at the council—for who in their right mind would willingly volunteer to do such a thing?—but I now realized that he understood full well the perils that would pursue him.

And yet, even with that knowledge, he had accepted the Ring without complaint. He was truly a remarkable person, and though I did not agree with the purpose of his quest—to take the Ring to Mordor and try to destroy it—I could not help but admire his spirit.

Sam sighed and dipped his head, holding Frodo’s hand in his own. He pressed it, and his master returned the gesture and smiled at him, saying something reassuring that I could not catch.

With a sigh of my own, I moved my eyes around the campfire, taking in all the faces and expressions there. Merry and Pippin were looking unnaturally subdued, and sitting quietly together, staring into the flames of the campfire. Aragorn, also, looked thoughtful as he stared into the trees around us, as though looking for something there.

Legolas was speaking quietly to Gandalf in a tongue that I could only assume was some form of Elvish. The Prince of Mirkwood seemed troubled, and he continually fingered the intricate carvings on his bow, which sat in his lap.

Gimli sat beside Merry and Pippin, silently puffing his pipe. He looked as though he was reliving some memory, and I wondered if perhaps he was thinking about his kin who had gone to Moria and not returned.

Suddenly Pippin spoke up, startling us all. “How the wind howls!” he said, shivering and wrapping his cloak tighter around himself. We all looked around, listening intently to the wind, hissing around the rocks and whistling through the trees. But there was something strange about it that unnerved me...

Suddenly Aragorn leaped to his feet. “How the wind howls!” he cried. “It is howling with wolf-voices. The Wargs have come west of the Mountains!”

We all scrambled to our feet, our eyes scanning the trees for glimpses of the creatures. “Moria does not seem quite so bad now, does it?” Gandalf said, picking up his staff. I turned to look at him. “How far is Moria?” I asked, eager to leave our current location.

“There was a door south-west of Caradhras, some fifteen miles as the crow flies, and maybe twenty as the wolf runs,” Gandalf answered grimly.

I glanced back at the trees, feeling an involuntary shudder go up my spine at a loud wolf’s howl. They were getting closer.

“Then let us start as soon as it is light tomorrow, if we can,” I said. “The wolf that one hears is worse than the orc that one fears.” I was quoting something that I had often told Faramir, when we were younger and he would be frightened by the wolves’ howls. How I wished my brother were here with us!

“True,” answered Aragorn, as he loosened his sword in its sheath. “But where the warg howls, there also the orc prowls.” I nodded grimly and unsheathed my own sword. The silver, sharpened blade glinted in the firelight.

I heard Pippin mutter something to Sam, who patted his shoulder reassuringly and responded too quietly for me to hear. Despite their fear, the hobbits were trying to remain calm, and stood huddled together with their hands on the hilts of their small swords, waiting for Gandalf to give a command.

“Come, let us get a higher position,” the old wizard said after a moment, looking up at the small hill we had camped under. “I do not think the wargs would be so foolish as to attack us, but if they do, we shall be more secure up there.”

The Company accepted this silently, and we all went about clearing the campsite. Fortunately, we had not yet unpacked everything, and so it was not long before we were climbing up the hill. I could hear the wolf-voices still advancing, and thought for a moment that I glimpsed a pair of round, pale eyes in the dark. But the next instant, it was gone, leaving me to wonder if I’d even seen it at all.

The hill was crowned with a knot of old and twisted trees, and beyond them was a broken circle of boulder-stones. It was the perfect place of defense for our camp, commanding a good view of the area, as well as the protection of the stone circle.

We lit a fire and settled down around it, feeling safe—well, as safe as we could be out here in the wilds. I was to take first watch, along with Legolas and Gimli—we felt it safer to have an extra person for each watch.

The hobbits curled up together, warmly covered in blankets and close to the fire, and though they fell asleep quickly, their sleep was fitful and uneasy. My heart clenched in pity for them—the terrors and constant dangers on this Quest were beginning to effect them.

All was silent for a long while, broken only by Bill the pony’s occasional movements. The poor beast trembled and sweated where he stood, loosely tied to a gnarled tree near Aragorn. No doubt he could sense the wolves’ presence closeby. I felt pity for the pony, as well; he was made for carrying packs and gear, not enduring the long and frightening journey we were bringing him on. Although I do not think he would have left of his own choosing—he had developed quite an attachment to Sam, who in return doted on and cared for the pony with the gentleness that I knew was now part of the hobbits’ characters.

The howling of wolves was all around us, sometimes nearer, causing me to grab my sword-hilt, and sometimes farther, echoing off the rocks. Orcs did not disturb me so greatly as wargs, and I shivered. Legolas was standing at the far edge of camp, staring off into the wilderland around us. I wondered if, with his keen Elven-eyesight, he could see the wolves.

Gimli was smoking his pipe at a different side of camp, mumbling to himself in a language I took to be Dwarvish. I had not heard it spoken before, but Gimli muttered so quietly that I could only discern a few words.

It was about the second hour of our watch when Legolas noiselessly walked over to me and sat down beside me. I turned and looked at him in surprise—thus far, the Elf had not made any attempt at friendship.

Legolas’ eyes glinted in the light of the fire, and they seemed to be boring into mine. Disconcerted, I turned away and looked at the ground. I nearly jumped when a felt a slender hand on my shoulder and looked up again into the eyes of Legolas.

“I have not been sociable since we began this quest,” the Elf said, his eyes gentle, “and I apologize.”

What was this? The arrogant Elven prince was apologizing to me, and offering friendship? Being by nature (and rank) proud myself, I know well how difficult it is to admit my errors. Perhaps Legolas was not so conceited as I thought. He seemed earnest in his apology, at any rate—and in such case, what other course of reply would be honorable but to accept and offer my own friendship in return?

I recovered my wits and extended my hand. Legolas gripped my arm at the elbow and I did the same, in the strong shake of fellow warriors. I grinned. “Well met, Legolas son of Thranduil,” I said.

Legolas smiled back. “Well met indeed, Boromir son of Denethor,” he returned with a nod, and as easily as that, we felt at ease. He paused for a moment. “Your sword is restless in its sheath, it seems. Are you so eager for battle?”

I shook my head. “I am eager to be rid of the wolves,” I replied, “and if that means battle, then so be it. I will protect the hobbits at all costs.”

Legolas laughed softly and turned his bright eyes upon the sleeping forms of the hobbits. Frodo turned restlessly in his sleep so that he was facing us, and a moment later, Sam turned the same way, tightening his arm that was draped protectively over his master’s side. Merry and Pippin were naught but a mass of golden curls, as they had burrowed into the blankets and the other halflings, so that only their heads stuck out.

“The hobbits have a remarkable aura about them, do they not?” Legolas asked quietly.

Keeping my eyes on the little ones, I nodded. “Aye, they do indeed,” I agreed. “Like nothing I have encountered before.”

Legolas looked at me with a smile. “They are simple creatures,” he said, “and have no love for fighting. I think it is their innocence that makes them strange to hardened warriors such as you and I—and the rest of the Fellowship.”

“Gandalf seems to be quite fond of them,” I observed with a nod in the wizard’s direction.

Legolas was looking into the campfire. “He has been with them for many years,” he replied, “and has become familiar with their ways.” He shook his head. “I do not think that I have seen him show such affection to any other creatures.”

“It is easy to understand why,” I said softly, turning my eyes back to the hobbits. “They are very charming.” I grinned. “And their appetites are quite extraordinary. Do you know that they eat six meals every day? How they have survived thus far on the Quest, I will never know.”

Legolas laughed again. “They are courageous little creatures,” he said, following my gaze to rest his eyes fondly on the hobbits again, “with great resilience and inner strength. Quite puzzling, they seem at times, but the Fellowship would be grim indeed without them!”

I was about to comment that the Fellowship would not even exist without the halflings, but just then a noise from Gimli startled me. He was coughing violently—evidently, something had gone amiss with his pipe, or so it appeared to we two onlookers. I could not help but grin at the proof of my own thoughts: smoking those vile pipes could do no good to anyone.

Legolas looked at me and his eyes danced with merry amusement. “Now the dwarf is another matter entirely,” he whispered. “If I felt that my offer of friendship would go as well with him as it did with you, I would have tried long ago.” He chuckled. “But I wish to quarrel no more, if only for the sake of the Ring-bearer and the rest of the Fellowship—I wish not to cause Frodo more grief than he already bears.” He sighed and shook his head. “I suppose that I may as well try it now.”

I grinned reassuringly at him and patted his shoulder, and with another heavy sigh, he got lightly to his feet and walked over to Gimli. I did not hear their conversation, for I was deep in thought. I had not yet quite recovered from the shock of Legolas’ sudden apology and offer of friendship, and only now did my thoughts clear.

I realized that friendship with Legolas was a good thing indeed—for I had come to see that in order to succeed, this Fellowship must stay together and learn to trust one another. I was certain that having an Elf as an ally could not be a bad thing, either, and decided to next attempt to make friendship with Gimli. Surely it would be prudent to have a dwarf for a companion and guide in the darkness of dwarven mines!

A sudden hand on my shoulder startled me, and I turned around to see Gandalf standing beside me. “Your watch is over,” he said quietly. “Go and rest, for I believe a battle is imminent.” I nodded and stifled a yawn. I truly was exhausted.

As I moved to rise, Gandalf’s hand kept me in place. His eyes were twinkling under his dark, bushy brows, and—what was this? He was smiling!

“I have seen your growing companionship with the hobbits, Aragorn, and now Legolas,” he said, “and I know that you wish to create friendship with the others, as well. And I commend you for it, Boromir son of Denethor, soldier of Gondor. That is a noble thing, and I hope that you do not stray from that path.”

I nodded earnestly, and with a last pat of my shoulder, Gandalf released me, and I walked silently over to my bedroll, close to the hobbits, digesting what the wizard had said as I settled down into the blankets.

But I did not have the chance to contemplate, nor to trouble over the wolves, for I was asleep almost the moment I closed my eyes.

*** 

It was the dead of night, and still Gandalf, Aragorn, and Legolas’ watch—the Elf had volunteered to take Pippin’s place, as he knew that the hobbit needed the rest, and he did not need so much sleep, himself—when I was awakened abruptly. The wolves’ howling was all around us suddenly, and horribly loud.

I leapt out of my bedroll, my hand moving to my sword-hilt. I could see many eyes surrounding the camp, and a few of the wolves advanced almost to the ring of stones. One of the foul beasts, larger than the others and appearing to be the leader, came the closest, and I could see him peering at us with slitted yellow eyes. He suddenly gave a howl, as though summoning the others of his pack to the assault.

Gandalf stood up and strode forward, past Aragorn and I, holding his staff above his head. “Listen, Hound of Sauron!” he cried loudly. The wolf grimaced and withdrew slightly. “Gandalf is here. Fly, if you value your foul skin! I will shrivel you from tail to snout, if you come within this ring.”

The wolf snarled and sprang forward at Gandalf. Aragorn and I moved forward to aid him, but suddenly there was a twang, and the wolf fell to the ground with a hideous yell and then a thud—dead, with an elven-arrow in his throat.

Legolas was standing at the opposite side of the camp, his bowstring taut and another arrow notched. The watching eyes suddenly vanished, the pack evidently unnerved by the sight of their leader’s death. Aragorn and Gandalf hurried forward, while I stayed behind with Legolas to guard the hobbits, if need be.

Aragorn and Gandalf quickly returned, however, for there was no sign of the pack. They had vanished into the night. Even their voices were silent—for the moment, at any rate.

We four got no more sleep that night. Though I tried, I knew that the wolves would not give up so easily. And so it proved.

It was nearly dawn, and I was about to succeed in convincing myself that the wolves truly had gone and that I could get some sleep at last, when of a sudden, there was a mad howling all around the camp. The wargs had returned!

I jumped to my feet instantly, at the same time as everyone else in the campsite, save the hobbits. They did not awaken until a moment later, and by that time, our swords were drawn and battle had begun.

Gandalf, barely glancing over his shoulder, barked orders to the frightened hobbits. “Fling fuel on the fire! Draw your swords, and stand back to back!”

The hobbits obeyed quickly, and the fire blazed up behind us. I moved closer to the hobbits, and saw Aragorn do the same. No harm would we let come to these halflings.

But within a few moments, I was unable to think of the others. For my battle instincts had taken effect, and my mind was focussed on a single purpose: to rout and destroy our enemies. I hardly felt myself swinging my sword, or raising my shield to block an attack. I only dimly felt the bite upon my right arm.

Legolas’ bow was singing at the far side of the camp, and beside me, Gimli was growling like a wolf as he swung his axe. Aragorn, on the other side of me, killed a monstrous leader with one swift thrust, and the next instant, I hewed the head off another one of equal size.

It was five minutes into the fight, as near as I could tell, when I again noticed the hobbits—and with astonishment. I was in a fierce combat with a large, sharp-fanged wolf, fighting to keep him away from the hobbits. The beast was stronger than even the brute that I had killed a moment before, and fighting ferociously.

With one great stroke of my sword, I at last succeeded in deeply wounding the wolf’s right shoulder. Though battle has hardened me, I cannot bear to see an animal—be it fair or foul—in suffering, and I wished to end this wolf’s pain quickly.

But the wolf was not mortally wounded, not yet.

Snarling at me it backed away, and its quick yellow eyes scanned the campsite. I moved forward, again to end its miseries, and suddenly with a blood-curdling howl, it flung itself forward—into the midst of the hobbits.

My heart stopped for a moment as the halflings’ back-to-back formation of defense was scattered. Each had their small sword drawn, but that would not defend them against a warg, I thought. I moved forward to help them, but at that moment, as though seeking to prevent me from coming to their aid, a great wolf leader leapt upon me, and I was pushed down to the ground.

As I fought with the beast, I struggled to see the halflings, but I could not. I heard Aragorn cry, “Frodo!” and Pippin gave a shrill yelp of terror. My fright for the hobbits gave me strength I had not known I had, and I fought back with a fury and desperation that surprised me—and the wolf, as well.

When I had overcome the beast and rose at last, my eyes quickly darted to where the hobbits had been. They were a few feet away, standing, shakily, by the enormous body of the wolf that had attacked them. All of their swords had a bit of blood on them, and again I felt my heart freeze in my chest as I saw a deep red stain on the white sleeve of Frodo’s shirt. Had the Ring-bearer been wounded?

But again, I was forced to turn my attention elsewhere. Gandalf held aloft a flaming brand from the fire. He seemed to have grown, and stood like a tall, grey cloud, towering above the cowering wolves.

“Naur an edraith ammen!” he cried in a commanding voice like thunder. “Naur dan i ngaurhoth!”

He threw the blazing branch high into the air, and it flared with a sudden piercing brilliance like lightning, painful to look upon. Then there was a roar and a crackle, and suddenly the tree above the wizard burst into blinding flame. The fire spread from treetop to treetop, until the entire hill was ablaze.

As another wolf boldly leapt toward me, I saw that my sword flickered as if with fire as I struck it. I saw out of the corner of my eyes that the sword of Aragorn, the axe of Gimli, and even the raised short swords of the hobbits also shone. What miracle had Gandalf worked?

Legolas released his last arrow, and it kindled brightly in the air before it plunged burning into the heart of a great wolf leader. With yammers and howls of defeat, the other wargs fled as swiftly as they had come.

All of us stood, awestruck, our minds still spinning, for several minutes. Then, like a flash of lightning to my mind came the thought of the hobbits! Without even bothering to wipe or sheath my sword, I turned and raced toward them—to find them recovering from their fright and…rejoicing!

“What did I tell you, Mr. Pippin?” Sam was saying brightly, wiping his sword with a grimace on the grass and sheathing it. “Wolves won’t get him. That was an eye-opener, and no mistake! Nearly singed the hair off my head!”

They noticed me standing there, wide-eyed and astonished, and grinned. “That was exciting, wasn’t it?” Pippin asked me, his face still flushed. “Perhaps I have a bit more of Bandobras the Bullroarer in me, after all!” He had told me before—or rather, tried to tell me, for I was lost among all his genealogies—all about his famous ancestor known as the Bullroarer.

“Is no one injured?” I asked at last, regaining the use of my tongue. The hobbits shook their heads simultaneously, one dark and three honey-colored heads of curls bouncing. Frodo noticed me staring at the bloodstain on his shirt, and smiled reassuringly. “Don’t worry, Boromir,” he said, “it’s not my blood.”

Pippin opened his mouth to say something, but at that moment, the rest of the Fellowship came up, breathing hard but victorious. “I do not think we shall get any more rest tonight,” Gandalf said, leaning on his staff and looking again like an old wizard. “Let us start breakfast, then, and tend to any wounds anyone has.” He looked especially at me, and it was then that I realized that my arm was bleeding.

We all moved about the camp: Sam and Merry began breakfast, Gimli loaded up the pony, Legolas replaced the broken string of Aragorn’s small bow, Gandalf walked about the area, scouting, I suppose. And I was forced to sit down near the bedrolls and have my wound tended to by Aragorn, with Pippin and Frodo’s help.

As I protested and attempted to get up for the third time, Aragorn sighed, and looked at the two hobbits assisting him. “Frodo, Pippin, please hold his left arm down for me,” he said, straight-faced, although there was a hint of impishness that I did not fail to catch. “I need him to be still if I am to clean his wound properly.”

“Aragorn,” I argued, “it is fine. There is no need…” But I trailed off, knowing that it was useless. Frodo and Pippin had already moved forward and were pinning my arm gently but firmly to the ground.

“That must hurt a lot,” Pippin said, wincing as Aragorn rolled up my sleeve to wash out the bite. I had to admit, it was rather deep. I maintained a stoic composure as Aragorn washed out the injury with some sharp-smelling liquid that seemed to burn the very skin off my bones.

“Not badly,” I said with a small smile for the young hobbit. He grinned back, and began his usual chatter throughout the rest of the binding of my arm. I enjoyed his discourse immensely, and by focussing on it, hardly felt any further pain from my wound.

It was about an hour later when we were ready to leave, and the sun was fully up. Before we started, we searched for the bodies of the slain wolves—for though I myself killed several and knew for certain that some had died, we could not find them. Vainly we searched, and returned without success. Legolas had found his arrows scattered about the hill, and they all looked as though they had never been used; save one, which was missing its shaft.

“It is as I feared,” Gandalf said as we returned to camp and hoisted our packs. “These were no ordinary wolves hunting for food in the wilderness. Let us go quickly!”

We did. Hastening from the hill, and after a long, disheartening and exhausting trek across the barren country of red stones, we reached the walls of Moria at last. Night had fallen, and the moon shone through the breaking clouds above us. A dark, still lake stretched before us, but the moon’s soft white glow was not reflected on its sullen surface.

I shivered involuntarily and wondered which was worse: to have Gandalf find what he sought—a way inside the dark mines—or that the gates be hidden from us forever. But we trudged doggedly onward, following Gandalf and Gimli; the dwarf was eager to enter the halls of his kin and ancestors, and had been walking beside Gandalf since we left the hill near the mountains.

We had but a thin, unstable path around the lake, and ahead of me, Frodo slipped slightly on the mud and one of his feet fell into the murky water. He quickly recoiled with a look of disgust, and we quickened our pace—although we took extra precaution to make sure that none of us fell all the way into the water.

At last, we rounded the lake and reached the tall, forbidding walls of stone that Gimli had said were the walls of Moria. There was no sign of a gate, or even a fissure or crack. Perhaps I had not hoped in vain, and the gates were indeed lost forever.

But Gandalf strode up the walls, and placing his hands on their surface, as though looking for something, he muttered, “Let me see now. Ithildin: it mirrors only starlight and moonlight.” He looked up at the moon, which had just reappeared from behind a passing cloud.

Suddenly, as the moon’s glow fell upon the stone walls, the form of two great double doors appeared, shining with soft blue silver-blue light. Gandalf chuckled, pleased with himself, and pointed his staff at the top of the gates, upon which were inscribed letters that I could not identify.

“It reads,” the wizard said, “‘The Doors of Durin, Lord of Moria. Speak, friend, and enter.’”

“What do you suppose that means?” Merry piped up curiously, voicing the thoughts of us all.

“It’s quite simple,” Gandalf replied. “If you are a friend, you speak the password, and the doors will open.”

We all stepped back a bit as Gandalf thrust the knobby end of his staff into a star-shaped carving in the middle of the two doors. “Annon edhellen, edro hi ammen!” he cried.

There was silence. Nothing stirred.

Gimli grunted, and someone sighed. Gandalf dropped his staff and placed both hands on the doors, as though to push them. “Edro!” he shouted. “Edro!”

Still there was silence. The doors remained shut.

So Gandalf did not know the entry word, and we were trapped here, unable to enter, between the walls and the wolves that still prowled behind! “What was the use of bringing us to this accursed place if you do not know the password?” I cried, unable to contain myself any longer.

Gandalf’s eyes glinted beneath his dark brows. “Be patient,” he said gruffly. “I need to think. I once knew every spell in all the tongues of Elves or Men or Orcs, that was ever used for such a purpose. If I am allowed a little peace, I will seek for the opening words.”

I sighed, but fell silent, and we all settled ourselves down on the rocks to wait. I could hear wolves howling in the distance, and shuddered. What was Gandalf doing? Again, it seemed as though he was deliberately trying to lead us into death! The Gap of Rohan seemed a great deal more inviting, whether it be closer to Saruman or no.

But Gandalf is in command—not I, I remind myself, and though I disagree with him, I have no choice but to follow him.

I sigh again and bend my head in both weariness and frustration, and settle myself more comfortably on the rock. This promises to be a long wait.

To Be Continued...

The Folly of the Wise ~ Part Five

“Pippin, you’re being ridiculous. How could you think that it’s made of toast-water and molasses?”

“Heavens, Merry, it was only just an idea—you needn’t get so excited about it. But you have to admit, it does taste a lot like toast-water, with a little molasses to sweeten it. And if you don’t agree, then what do you think it’s made of?”

I couldn’t help but chuckle at Merry and Pippin’s little disagreement. They’d begun to argue about what cram was made of after trying a small sample of it. They had seen Gimli eating some of it, and asked about it. Evidently feeling more obliging than usual, and no doubt amused by the young halflings’ curiosity, the dwarf gave them each half of a wafer of the waybread.

Their squabble was, in all honesty, a relief for us—myself, at least. It brightened the atmosphere of this dark and foreboding place. It had been at least an hour—probably longer—since we arrived at the Gates of Moria, and still, Gandalf stood before the great stone entrance, speaking in more languages than I knew even existed in a seemingly futile attempt to open the door.

My attention again focused on the hobbits as they pulled Frodo into the conversation. The Ring-bearer had not spoken much since arriving here, and sat silently beside Sam, staring pensively down at the plate of food he was supposed to be eating. I wonder what thoughts were running through his mind?

“Bilbo had some cram when he traveled to the Lonely Mountain with Gandalf and the dwarves, didn’t he, Frodo?” asked Merry brightly, startling Frodo from his thoughts and causing him to jump.

Frodo smiled. “Yes,” he replied; “and he has the recipe for it with him, in Rivendell, as well, I believe.”

Merry sighed and leaned back against Pippin on the rock they both sat on. “Wouldn’t it be dreadful to be stuck in a dark mountain with nothing to eat but cram?” he asked, looking up at the stars overhead.

Pippin laughed and pushed Merry so that the other halfling fell off the rock, landing on his back in the dirt. “And with a dragon, too!” he added in that high, singsong voice of his.

But though I was amused, as were the others, Gandalf, evidently, was not. “Be quiet, Peregrin!” he said irritably, turning around and giving the young halfling a sharp look beneath his bushy eyebrows. “Unless you want to bring every dragon in Middle-Earth on top of us. Hush! I am trying to think.”

Pippin, undaunted by the wizard’s annoyance, clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle a laugh, and Merry, still on the ground and propped up on his elbows, was biting his lip as he shook with suppressed mirth. Even Sam turned a chortle into a cough as he rummaged through his pack.

I heard Pippin mutter something about “the real dragon,” which caused Merry to fall back down on the ground, both hands over his mouth to keep back his laughter. Frodo shot Pippin a slightly reproachful look, although his blue eyes were dancing and a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

Something about these halflings released a mischievous spirit I had not even known I had, and I spoke up laughingly, “I think that a tame dragon would actually be more useful at the moment than a wild wizard!”

Pippin fell off his rock beside Merry in his laughter, and Sam coughed several times more. Frodo covered his own laughter with his hand, and Aragorn choked slightly as he puffed smoke rings with his pipe. Legolas had a smile on his face, and Gimli gave a snort that I interpreted as a laugh.

I was more than a little pleased with myself that I had lightened the company’s mood, and even Gandalf’s annoyed reply did not bother me. “At the moment, at the moment,” the wizard said without turning to look at me. “Later on we may see. I am old enough to be your great-grandfather’s ancestor—but I am not doddery yet. It will serve you right if you meet a wild dragon.”

I was too deep in satisfaction as I looked from one merry face to the other to retort. At the same time, though, I was dumbfounded. Where had that come from? Although, of course, we often jest and lightly tease one another in the service of Gondor, blithe taunts are a rarity. Perhaps if we more often did so, Gondor would be a happier place.

But at the moment, I was content to sit beside Aragorn and the two youngest hobbits, still grinning. “What do you say to a game of riddles?” asked Merry suddenly, looking at Frodo with an expression in his bright blue-grey eyes that brooked no argument.

Frodo shook his head with a smile. “You know I’m no good at riddles, Merry."

Pippin laughed and clapped his cousin on the back. “Nonsense, Frodo!” he said loudly. “You’re just trying to get out of having a good time. And who taught us most of the riddles we know, anyhow?”

“Bilbo,” Frodo retorted with a wry smile. But he sighed and allowed Pippin to lead him over to the rock where he and Merry sat. “But I’ll only play if Sam is allowed to help me out.” He glanced over his shoulder at Sam, whose head shot up at the sound of his name.

Merry nodded. “Very well,” he said with a mischievous sparkle in his eyes that I had come to recognize. “It’ll be Pip and me against you and Sam.”

Sam opened his mouth—to argue, no doubt, knowing him—but seeing the determination in all three of the other hobbits’ eyes, he sighed and came over to sit beside Frodo.

As interesting as hobbits and their riddles were, my attention was drawn suddenly to the lake that sat silently in front of the doors of Moria. It had bothered me when we arrived, and I did not trust its appearance of tranquility. Aragorn had been staring at it for some time now, his face not giving any sign of his emotions.

It seemed that I saw a slight ripple disturb the water’s smooth surface, and I could have sworn I saw one of the submerged tree-branches move. What new danger was this? As if it was not enough to hear the wolves howling in the distance—now the lake held some hidden death trap, as well?

Glancing behind me at Aragorn, I saw that his eyes had narrowed and he was watching the same branch that I had seen move just a moment before. So I was not the only one with misgivings.

Aragorn stood, placing his pipe on the rock where he had been sitting, and came over to my side. “The water moves,” he whispered. I nodded, keeping my eyes focused on the lake. We must not linger here! I thought impatiently. If we cannot enter the Mines, then let us hasten from this place, at least, and make for the Gap of Rohan.

As though reading my thoughts, Aragorn placed one hand on my shoulder and squeezed it. “We must trust to Gandalf,” he said quietly. “He knows what he is doing.”

Receiving no reply from me, he turned and called Sam over to the pony, Bill. The riddling hobbits fell silent as Aragorn gently told Sam that we could not hope to lead Bill into the Mines. Despite my doubt that we would ever get into the Mines, I was sympathetic for Sam, who had become quite fond of Bill and was reluctant to let the pony go.

Frodo stood and came to Sam’s side, putting an arm around his friend’s shoulder reassuringly. He said something too softly for me to hear, but it seemed to console Sam, a little, and he helped Aragorn unpack the gear from Bill’s back.

Sensing that Sam needed to be alone with Bill for a few minutes before saying goodbye, Aragorn and Frodo returned to the rocks, and the two youngest hobbits pulled their cousin into their game of riddles again.

“But that’s not fair!” Frodo complained good-naturedly. “It’s two against one now, and you two must know every riddle ever made. I, however, do not.”

Pippin snorted. “Nonsense, Cousin!” he said firmly. “You’ve a lot more riddles stored in your head than you let on—I expect Bilbo’s told you a whole horde of ones from the lands he’s been to, that Mer and I have never heard of.” As Frodo halfheartedly tried to object, Pippin continued, “But at any rate, we are going to continue with the riddle game, until such time as Gandalf… opens the gate,” he ended with a slight grumble and received an elbow in the ribs from Frodo.

“Very well,” the Ringbearer sighed, feigning reluctance although his eyes still danced with pleasure—I was guessing that Pippin was not far from the mark when he had declared that Frodo knew many more riddles than he disclosed.

“I believe it was my turn,” said Merry with attempted dignity. But this façade was soon ruined when Frodo reached over and plucked a small twig from his curly hair—an extra bit of baggage acquired from his fall off the rock.

Merry and Pippin laughed, while Frodo smiled—more brightly than I’d seen in many a day. After a moment, Merry composed himself and coughed. “As I was saying.” He shot a playful glare at Frodo, who affected a look of innocence. “…It is my turn. All right, I’ll give you an easy one, Cousin:

A box without hinges, key, or lid,

Yet golden treasure inside is hid.”

I found myself silently participating in their game, and tried to guess the answer. Being a hobbit riddle, I reasoned, it must have something to do with food. Yet golden treasure inside is hid…Ah, I had it—

“Eggs!” said Frodo triumphantly, voicing what I was just about to guess. “Heaven and earth, Merry, what a chestnut. You don’t have to go that easy on me! Don’t forget, I’ve read Bilbo’s book, and haven’t forgotten the riddles he asked Gollum.”

Merry shot a conspiratorial glance at Pippin, who grinned widely. I noticed that Frodo caught the look, and his smile broadened a little, but he said nothing. He must have known that his cousins were trying to cheer him up, and chose to enjoy it without comment—a wise decision, I thought, for I do not think that he could have won an argument with Merry and Pippin had he objected.

“I shan’t forget,” said Merry loftily, “and I hadn’t, in the first place. But at any rate, it’s your turn, now.”

“Make it a good one!” Pippin urged gleefully, throwing himself off the rock to the ground at Frodo’s feet, chin resting on his arms, folded across his cousin’s legs as though he were a child about to hear a fairy story.

Frodo laughed and allowed Pippin to stay where he was. “Are you sure you don’t want to sit in my lap?” he teased.

Pippin shook his head, grinning. “I would, Cousin,” he said, “but I don’t think I would fit.”

“Probably true,” Frodo agreed, ruffling Pippin’s curls; an action which caused the youngest hobbit to halfheartedly scowl and slap his hand away. “Very well, then. You two want a hard one, did you say?

Grey as a mouse,

Big as a house,

Nose like a snake,

I make the earth shake.

What am I?” he finished, smiling happily at the look of puzzlement on Merry and Pippin’s faces. I myself was puzzled—but only for a moment. Then I remembered something Faramir had told me, and the answer came to my mind, but I kept silent, watching in amusement as the two youngest halflings tried to think of the answer.

“Well, we certainly got what we asked for,” Merry said, thoughtfully scratching his cheek. “By the Shire, Frodo, where did you learn that?”

Frodo smiled in playfully condescending patience at them. “Sam taught me,” he told them, laughing a little at their surprise. “Actually, it’s a rhyme that most Hobbiton folk know, or used to. It’s not being taught so much anymore.” His face clouded slightly, and his hand reached up as if by impulse to thoughtfully finger the Ring.

I watched him closely, thinking how much he resembled Faramir in interests and personality. My brother, too, was distressed that old tales and poems were not being passed down to children anymore, or being disregarded as old wives’ tales. He often lamented to me about it, saying that our children were being brought up in ignorance of the past. For myself, I had always thought it a loss, but a small one compared to others.

But now, seeing Frodo’s small face grow sorrowful and his bright eyes fill with regret, I felt a sudden, new grief for the loss of old tales. For was it not through the deeds of those in the histories that our lands and great cities were won and built? Were it not for them, those heroes of old, even the great city of Minas Tirith might not exist at all.

And if action was not taken soon, all of our history and great cities will be lost—the Shadow will engulf the rest of Middle-Earth. Majestic Gondor, my beloved country of such honor and nobility; ancient Rohan, home to our allies and brothers-in-arms, the Rohirrim, ruled by the wise King Théoden. And the merry Shire, home of the halflings, so sweet natured and charming, small bright lights in the darkness. All of this, all of our homes, would inevitably be destroyed by Sauron…

Yet this doom could be prevented—our history preserved, our lands kept safe and prospering—if only someone would have the courage to wield the One Ring against the Dark Lord. It was the only way, the only sensible route…why did no one see that?

At first, I thought that it must be that they—Aragorn, Elrond, Gandalf and the rest—must be cowardly, to fear so greatly the thing that could be used to defeat the Enemy, and then to thrust the needless task of destroying It on an innocent young halfling. But now I knew that none of them were cowards; of that I had no doubts. Then why did they not see? See that it is cruelty—indeed, murder!—to send a small hobbit into the Dark Lands to attempt to destroy the Ring, that there is no hope that way.

Why, why did they not see? How it frustrated me! Perhaps I should speak with Frodo on this matter—perhaps he will see, I mused hopefully. I did not wish to discourage or intimidate him in any way, of course, but persuasion might be necessary. But he is sensible; surely he will see my reason. If they will not allow me to use It, then why not let the Ring-bearer do so? Though the honor would not be my own, truly, I would rejoice to follow Frodo into battle against the Enemy. He was strong enough, I believed, and had the courage to wield the Ring. Perhaps…

The voice of Pippin pulled me from my thoughts and I turned my attention to them again, but part of my mind still mused on that thought. It would be difficult to speak with Frodo alone, as either Sam or Aragorn were constantly hovering about him, but the matter could wait—though not for long.

“Lawks, Frodo,” the youngest halfling complained, “you know jolly well that we’ll never guess this one!”

Frodo merely smiled at him, and Merry said, “Hang on, Pip. Is it a rain cloud?”

Pippin snorted. “A rain cloud with a ‘nose like a snake,’ Merry?”

Merry ignored him and looked at Frodo. “It could be a storm cloud with one of those, what d’you call 'em, whirlwinds that we’ve heard about from Bree—they’re supposed to look a bit like snakes, and they certainly make the earth shake.”

“Sorry, Mer,” Frodo said, shaking his head. “Not a storm cloud. Fair guess, though.” As Merry and Pippin both sighed, he laughed. “All right, do you give up?”

“Yes!” they both chorused in exhasperation.

“Very well.” Frodo paused, drawing out their suspense to the full. I hid a chuckle by turning away for a moment. “The answer is... an oliphaunt.”

Merry and Pippin groaned. “Frodo!” said the youngest in annoyance. “You know we’d never guess that. Why, we only heard of oli—whatever you call them a few years ago.”

“Sorry, Cousin,” Frodo said with an unrepentant smile. “But you did ask for a hard one. If you’re so upset, though, it’s your turn.”

Pippin eagerly accepted, and was silent a few minutes as he thought of the riddle. Sam came quietly over, sorrowfully put Bill the pony’s old halter in his pack, wiped his eyes with his sleeve and came over to sit beside his master. Frodo said nothing, but wrapped his arm comfortingly around Sam’s shoulders and let his friend lean against him.

It was interesting, I thought, watching them, that they all knew each other so well—they knew just how to console or cheer one of their own, and could do so without exchanging a single word. Yet another charming trait of the halflings, and oddly enough, one that I see only in the army—for when training together, you get to know and love the other soldiers as brothers.

After a few more riddle exchanges, Frodo stood up, patted Sam’s shoulder, and walked back to the rock where he’d been sitting earlier. The other three hobbits allowed him to leave, evidently deciding that their work was done for the moment. Sam rose and went to organize the packs—something he did, I had come to learn, when nervous or sad. Merry and Pippin, bored of riddles, stood up and walked over to the shore of the lake, then crouched down to examine the various types of rocks on the ground.

Frodo wrapped his cloak tighter about him and shivered, glancing at the lake out of the corner of his eye. I shared his unease—I was sure again that I saw something move beneath the still surface.

Suddenly I heard a loud plunk, followed by another, and looked sideways to see Merry and Pippin throwing stones into the water! I started, and rose to my feet, but Aragorn beat me to them. He grabbed Pippin’s arm just as the young halfling was about to toss another stone.

“Do not disturb the water,” he whispered, though not harshly. Pippin dropped his rock, and I slowly came over to Aragorn’s side as the water rippled—and not from the thrown stones. Merry gasped slightly, and clasped Pippin’s hand as the younger of the two stepped back a pace.

“It’s a riddle!”

Frodo’s voice caught my attention and I looked back. The Ringbearer was standing and looking up at the great stone walls. He glanced at Gandalf, who had sunk defeatedly onto a rock beside the one Frodo had been sitting on. “Speak, friend, and enter. What’s the Elvish word for friend?”

“Mellon,” Gandalf said slowly, looking up at the doors. There was a tremendous groaning and scraping as the stone gates creaked open. All heads turned toward the entrance, and Gimli quickly put out his pipe and stuffed it into his pack. Legolas blinked as though coming out of a trance, and came over from where he had been standing to the side, looking out at the water. Merry and Pippin, with one last glance behind them at the water, turned and hurried toward the door, with Sam following.

Had I not been so concerned about the lake, I would have been smiling with pride that it was Frodo, and not the wise and learned wizard, who had discovered the password to the door. I saw him, smiling slightly—not with pride, but with relief—saying something softly to Merry and Pippin when they rushed up to him. It seemed that he was thanking them—for in their attempt to cheer him up, they had given him the idea of riddles. I could not resist a small smile, proud of all of the halflings for their resourcefulness.

Aragorn and I followed the company as Gandalf led them into the Mines. We continually glanced back in wariness until we had stepped inside the darkness, but even then, I felt uneasy. There was something in that lake, and I did not think it would allow us to escape—if indeed it can be called escaping—into the Mines.

Gandalf’s staff suddenly began to glow faintly; it was too dark for me to see how he did it. He raised it and looked around, and in the heavy air, I could clearly hear his sigh of dismay. Being in the rear of the Company, however, I could not see what disturbed him so—besides the blackness and air that carried strongly the heavy scent of dust and decay.

“Soon, Master Elf, you will enjoy the fabled hospitality of the dwarves!” said Gimli as we slowly advanced, walking beside Legolas. The dwarf seemed the only one excited about entering the Mines, and his voice was merry as he spoke. “Roaring fires, malt beer, red meat off the bone!” He licked his lips loudly, and somehow the sound sent a shiver up my spine. “This is the home of my cousin, Balin. And they call it a mine—a mine!” He laughed a little at his last words, though I myself did not see the jest.

My eyes at last adjusted to the dim light, and it was all I could do not to gasp in horror. Skeletons—dwarves, judging by the small size and thick bones—were strewn everywhere, some with crude arrows or broad-bladed swords and knives protruding from them.

“This is no mine,” I said quietly, unable to keep a slight quiver from my voice. “It is a tomb.”

The four halflings in front of me stopped short and gasped as they looked wildly around. Gimli’s head shot up, he glanced from side to side. “No!” he roared, anguish in his voice. He ran to some of the nearest bodies and crouched beside them, looking at them closely as if to try and recognize them.  “No-o-o-o!”

Legolas stooped and pulled a blood-crusted arrow from the ribcage of one of the skeletons. “Goblins,” he announced grimly, tossing the arrow away and notching one of his own to his bowstring.

Aragorn and I instinctively jumped forward and drew our swords, looking around, waiting for an attack. Those doors had certainly made enough noise to wake all the orcs that still lingered in Moria!

Somehow, the hobbits, forming the tight band that they seemed to form instinctively, were behind us as we all began to back out. “We make for the Gap of Rohan,” I said, as Gandalf did not speak. “We should never have come this way.” My voice rose as I swallowed down fear. “Now get out! Get out of here!” My last words were spoken mainly to the hobbits, who I was able to hear behind me stumbling backwards.

Suddenly Frodo gave a cry, and I whirled around to see the halfling dragged to the ground—a long green tentacle, like a handless arm, had grabbed ahold of his ankle, and it began dragging him towards the water!

Instantly, the other three hobbits had their swords drawn and were rushing forward to aid their friend. Aragorn and I were close behind, swords drawn, and heard Legolas, Gimli and Gandalf quickly following.

The other three halflings had grabbed both of Frodo’s arms and seemed to be in the midst of a deadly game of tug-of-war as the arm tried to pull the Ringbearer into the water. Before Aragorn and I could reach them, Sam let go of his master’s arm to hew in fury at the tentacle. It quivered, but did not release Frodo, who had managed to unsheathe his own sword. Frodo struck the arm in the wound Sam had made, and at last, nearly sliced all the way through, it let go of the halfling’s ankle and withdrew into the water.

The hobbits remained still, breathing hard, and staring with wide eyes at the water, as Aragorn and I were doing. It was as though we had been turned to stone—as though the Creature’s will was holding us in place.

Then the water suddenly boiled, and more arms than I could count erupted from the water. They slapped Merry, Pippin and Sam away, and grabbed Frodo by the ankle again before the others could get back up to their feet.

Instead of dragging him on the ground again, the tentacles swung the small halfling up into the air. Aragorn and I plunged into the water and began hacking desperately at the many arms, as Frodo dangled helplessly, upside-down in the air above us. All the arms looked alike; it was impossible to tell which one held Frodo.

Frodo still had his sword, but before he could so much as raise his arm, another tentacle shot out and grabbed his wrist. Watching him with concern out of the corner of my eye, I saw the Creature whipping him about so hard that it seemed impossible that his back or neck would not be broken.

Suddenly something else emerged from the water in front of me—and in horror I realized what it was. A great maw, opening up wide to display a set of sharp teeth larger than my shield. The Creature dangled Frodo dangerously above its mouth, as though taunting us, and continued to whip the halfling from side to side as it lowered him slowly towards the gaping rows of teeth.

Frodo’s cries for help grew more desperate as the arms lowered him ever closer toward the maw, and Aragorn and I fought furiously, desperately. If Frodo was not killed from being flung about so violently, he would be eaten alive!

There seemed no end to the thick green arms that erupted everywhere around us. I could hardly see for the spray of water. As I hacked at the tentacles with all of my strength, I could hear Frodo’s cries become fainter, and looked up in panic. The Ringbearer no longer struggled in the Creature’s grip, and hung limply from the two tentacles holding him.

My heart nearly stopped until I saw him stir a little, and his free hand sought the chain that held the Ring around his neck. What was he doing? “Strider!” I heard him call faintly, barely audible over the roaring of the water and the howls of the Creature, which, as though sensing what Frodo was trying to do, reached another two-fingered arm up and slid it over Frodo’s face, muffling his next words. He managed to shake it off, and it moved down his neck, stopping just over the place where the Ring lay, still hidden beneath his shirt. Frodo gave a cry, and his free hand attempted, futilely, to move the tentacle, which was struggling to worm its way under his shirt. My mouth went dry. The Creature knew of the Ring!

Frodo struggled to pull the arm away from his neck—the two fingers seemed to be wrapping themselves about his throat while the long thumb continued to search for the chain. Heart thudding in my ears, I hewed at the nearest arm. The air vibrated with the Creature’s screech, and I looked up to see with relief that I had severed the tentacle that was reaching for the Ring.

As the Creature renewed its attack, I redoubled mine, watching Frodo carefully out of the corner of my eyes all the while. He again brought his hand up to his neck, and appeared to be fingering the clasp, that must have slid down to the front. Was he going to try to drop the Ring to us? Aragorn looked up, and he also knew what Frodo was trying to do. “No, Frodo!” he shouted desperately, and using both hands, he hewed the arm to his right.

To my intense relief, it was the arm that grasped Frodo’s ankle, and the halfling dropped neatly into my open arms. I turned and tried to run back, out of the water. Frodo’s arms wrapped tightly around my neck, but I had no time to express my joy that he still lived except for a quick sigh.

“Legolas!” Aragorn shouted behind me, still hewing at the arms. “Hit him in the eye!”

Legolas stood on the bank and almost before the words were spoken, he released an arrow that must have hit its target directly—I could not look back, but I heard the Creature’s howl of pain.

At last, I stumbled onto the shore, and set Frodo down. After shooting one last arrow into the Creature, Legolas turned and helped the halfling up the steps, where Sam, Merry and Pippin quickly joined in aiding their friend. I turned to see Aragorn trip just as he reached the shore, and on impulse I reached out and grabbed his wrist, practically dragging him to his feet and out of the water.

“Into the Mines!” Gandalf shouted unnecessarily, sword drawn. The hobbits, assisted by Gimli, were already inside, and Legolas, Aragorn and I not far behind. Gandalf hurried after us, and hardly had we entered the darkness again, when the Creature climbed up onto the shore and wrapping its arms around the stone gates, it pulled them, bringing the ceiling down and sealing the doors shut forever. We barely escaped the avalanche of rock, and Legolas turned to help both Aragorn and myself as we stumbled at the rear.

With a deafening roar, complete and absolute darkness fell on us like a thick, impenetrable cloud. Ancient dust stirred up stuck in our throats and I heard everyone—save Legolas, of course—coughing. In the blackness, I could only pinpoint where each member of the Company was by the sounds of their breathing. Legolas’ quick, but soft and unstrained breaths were behind me; Aragorn’s gasping but hardly harsher than the Elf’s breaths were close by my left ear, and on my opposite side, I could hear Gimli’s loud panting. The four hobbits’ quick, frightened gasps reminded me of the breathing of a trapped rabbit, and they were just in front of me.

And at the head of all of us, I heard Gandalf’s aged, wheezing breaths as the wizard tapped with his staff on the stone floor. A faint white light sprang up as it had before, and then grew brighter to illuminate some of our underground prison.

“We now have but one choice,” said Gandalf heavily: “we must face the long dark of Moria.” With a glance and short nod in Frodo’s direction, he turned and began to slowly lead us up the broken steps. “Be on your guard,” he cautioned as we followed him, single file; “there are older, and fouler things than orcs in the deep places of the world.”

How long we hiked that day—or night, I do not know. We camped in a wide, stone hall; a flat part in between two damaged flights of stone steps. I took first watch, along with Gandalf who stood at the other side of our camp, facing the tunnel we were to walk through the morrow. His staff was propped against the wall at his side, still giving us a faint glow, soft as candlelight.

That thought unexpectedly brought a bittersweet memory to my mind, and leaning against the wall, I sank down until I sat with one arm resting on my drawn up knees. I remembered one night, when I was only a lad of thirteen or fourteen, and Faramir not even out of childhood, there was a powerful storm.  It was only two years since our young, beautiful mother, Finduilas had died, and poor Faramir, who had always been terrified by the rolling thunder and flashing lightning, was even more frightened without her soothing touch and voice. I was troubled by the storm as well, and when I could bear it no longer by myself, I had silently gone down the enormous marble hall and into Faramir’s room. As I was nearly fourteen and practically a man at the time, I could not come up with a suitable reason for coming into his bed like a frightened child, so I said nothing and silently crawled into his bed.

There I found little Faramir curled up in a trembling, frightened ball. He was terrified, but as he later told me, more afraid of risking our father’s displeasure by letting anyone else know of his fear—and he had not wished to disturb me by coming into my room.

When I slid into bed beside him, Faramir had slowly raised his head and stared at me with wide blue-grey eyes. His lower lip had trembled as he tried to hold back the tears that filled his eyes, but when I asked him what was wrong, he had launched himself unceremoniously into my arms and sobbed quietly. He never would have done that had father been there, and I was shocked frozen for a moment as he soaked my silken nightshirt with his tears. But then brotherly instinct took effect, and I had wrapped my arms tightly around him, stroking his disheveled hair and murmuring senseless words of comfort.

After what seemed a long time, I had noticed that Faramir was dead weight over my shoulder. Alarmed, I had shifted him to look at his face and found that he had simply fallen asleep. When I gently laid him back against the soft pillows and made to cover him with the warm woolen blankets, his eyes had opened halfway and he’d reached up to grab my arm with one small hand. “Can you light a candle, Bor’mir?” he’d asked sleepily, using his pet name for me. As a large crack of thunder sounded and a vivid fork of lightning illuminated the room for an instant, his eyes had opened a little wider with a sudden fear. “Don’t leave, Bor’mir,” he had begged.

Laughing quietly, I had assured him, running my fingers through his hair, that I would not think of leaving him alone. Satisfied for the moment, he had lain back against the pillows to watch me as I got out of the bed to light his candle. 

I’d brought the candle over and set it on the bedside table that was closest to him, and then crawled under the coverlet beside him. He curled up close to me, facing the candle, and he did not even flinch at the crash of thunder outside. I had found that the candlelight comforted me, too, and I had wrapped my arms around him and buried my face contentedly in his tousled hair. He’d smiled and burrowed into my embrace.

Just as I’d begun to fall asleep, Faramir had shifted under the blankets and turned slightly so that I could see his profile against the soft glow of the candlelight. “Thank you,” he’d murmured, so softly that I barely heard it. “Good night, Bor’mir.”

“Bor’mir.”

“Boromir.”

I suddenly become aware that a hand is shaking me gently by the shoulder…Had I fallen asleep? My name is spoken again, softly, and the small hand shakes me a bit harder. “Faramir?” I murmur inarticulately, only partially awake.

“No, Boromir. It’s Frodo—wake up.”

With a start, my eyes fly open and I raise my head from where it had been bent in an undignified position over my knees. I am grateful for the darkness, for it hides the color that rises to my face as I realize that I had fallen asleep on duty. What would my father say?

“Frodo? What is the time?” I flush even more—is this the only coherent thing I can think to say?

But the halfling smiles at me, his eyes shining in the soft glow of Gandalf’s staff. “I’m not sure,” he says softly, “but it’s second watch now. Aragorn is with me.”

I feel even more humiliated, if that is possible. What will Aragorn think of me now? As though sensing my embarrassment, Frodo pats my shoulder reassuringly. “Don’t worry, Boromir. Aragorn isn’t awake yet—I haven’t slept well, so I’m a few minutes early for my watch.” I manage a soft chuckle and relax a bit.

Stifling a yawn, I look about the tunnel. Gandalf does not seem to have moved at all—he still stands at the far side of our makeshift campsite, his staff leaning against the wall beside him. If he notices that I have just woken up, he gives no sign.

I look back at Frodo and see him staring down the stone hallway where we had come, his small frame tense and alert. I follow his gaze, and for an instant it seems I can see two pale gleams in the darkness; but then they are gone, so quickly I wonder if they’d been there at all.

With a shudder, Frodo tears his eyes from the darkness and looks up at me, starting a little when he sees me watching him. “What is it you see?” I ask him quietly.

He shrugs his shoulders. “I’m not sure,” he answers evasively, obviously not inclined to share his thoughts with me.

Understanding that he will not speak more of the matter, I accept it; I too am secretive about my thoughts and feelings most of the time, and I empathize with his decision to keep his own council.

As I yawned again, I realized that I was in danger of falling asleep again where I sat.

“Thank you for waking me,” I whisper to Frodo, changing the subject. He looks up at me and smiles. “I didn’t want to disturb you, since you seemed to be having a pleasant dream, but you looked so uncomfortable there sitting up against the hard wall with your head on your knees, I didn’t have the heart to leave you as you were.”

I smile at him, grateful for his kindness. “Thank you,” I repeat. “I was having a pleasant dream, but I am glad that you woke me—I would not wish anyone to know that I had fallen asleep on watch.” Surprise flickers across Frodo’s features, and I too feel mildly surprised. What is it about this gentle halfling that prompted me to share my discomfiture with him?

“Don’t worry,” he whispers reassuringly as I begin to rise. “No one will know. Sleep well.”

With a grateful pat of his shoulder, I get up and move to my bedroll, near the pile of sleeping hobbits. I settle down beneath my blanket, clasping my hands behind my head and staring at the roof of the tunnel. I can hear Sam snoring close by, and Pippin murmurs something about “apples” in his sleep as he turns over and flops his arm over Merry’s chest, producing a soft “oomph” from his older cousin. Chuckling to myself, I turn my sleep-heavy eyes toward Frodo, sitting at the opposite side of the campsite where I had been. I must be half-asleep already, for to my half-open, bleary eyes, the slight young halfling seems to glow, faintly, with a gentle white light. But I am too weary to even wonder at it, and dismissing it as the beginnings of a dream, I close my eyes and let sleep come over me.

To be continued...

The Folly of the Wise ~ Part Six

Waking brought an odd and puzzling sensation to me: for one thing, I found that my blanket had disappeared, though strangely enough, only my legs were cold. The next second, I also discovered that there was something warm and heavy lying across my chest. For several minutes, I simply lay there, my eyes still closed, my mind too much asleep to work out what was on top of me. But eventually, the fog of sleep began to lift and I became aware that whatever it was, it was snoring softly.

I moved slightly, but the thing did nothing more than to yawn and burrow closer into me. Feeling a bit irritated now, I sighed and reluctantly dragged open my eyes. At first I could see nothing in the deep darkness surrounding me, and I wondered where I was. But then full memory came back to me: the caverns of Moria.

Once my eyes had become used to the dim light, I looked down at the thing on my chest. It was Pippin, his small sharp-featured face turned towards me, smiling in blissful unawareness. His tiny hands were curled, one in the blanket (which he had pulled off me and had covered himself with), and the other in the front of my tunic. At the sight of his peaceful, childlike face, my irritation dissipated instantly and I found myself smiling as I tucked the blanket more tightly around him.

Somehow, he reminded me vaguely of Bergil, the son of one of the White City guards. Beregond, his father, was a brave, honorable man, and good company, as Faramir and I discovered several years before. His son could not have been more than ten summers, I guessed, and though he was often quite mischievous and got himself into trouble as a result of his insatiable curiosity, I had never seen such an obedient, respectful and sensible lad when he was called upon to be so—very much like these hobbits.

Suddenly with a start I truly realized, for the first time, what a brave thing young Pippin was doing by accompanying us on the Quest; he was still just a lad, not even of age yet from what I understood. He was immature and reckless at times, and I could only imagine the havoc he must have caused in his homeland. But he was so fiercely dedicated to Frodo and the other hobbits, and I had not seen his courage falter yet. I shook my head in admiration. He was an extraordinary person, just like all of the halflings.

Fully awake now, I turned my head to look around me. The other hobbits were not far away on my right—at least I was fairly certain that the pile of blankets and curly hair was them. The only way I could tell them apart was that Frodo’s dark curls were in the middle, and I could just see an arm protectively draped across that blanket that seemed to be his side—Sam must have been on the other side of his master, farthest away from me. So the closest lump of sandy curls must have been Merry, as usual, so far under the blankets that I could only see the top of his head.

Chuckling slightly to myself, I turned my head the other way to see what the rest of the
Company was doing. Gandalf, at last, was asleep it seemed—his staff still glowed faintly beside him. Legolas lay in his bedroll, his hands clasped behind his head, his face turned toward the roof of the tunnel. His eyes were open, it looked like from my position, but from the even rising and falling of his chest and his motionless form, I knew that he was asleep. Elves, I thought to myself, shaking my head in puzzlement. Can any mortal understand them?

Aragorn lay near Legolas, wrapped in his cloak, deeply asleep, it appeared. He was not far from me, and I could see his face: it was free from the lines of care and worry that normally resided there, and he even seemed to be smiling slightly. Just as I was about to look away, I heard him murmur something so soft I barely heard it. "Arwen…" The word puzzled me for a moment, but then I remembered—Arwen was the daughter of Lord Elrond of Rivendell. This knowledge served only to puzzle me further. Why would Aragorn be speaking the name of an Elf-woman in his sleep? From what I had gathered, the Ranger had visited Imladris frequently, perhaps even lived there for a time, so it was likely that he had met Lady Arwen there and a friendship had grown between them. That, however, did not satisfy my suddenly arroused curiosity, and I continued to contemplate other possible explanations.

"What occupies your interest so, man of Gondor?" the gruff but friendly voice startled me and I looked up to see Gimli approach from the other side of camp. For once, he left his axe behind, leaning against the stone wall where he’d been sitting.

Remembering my decision to attempt friendship with the dwarf, I smiled at him. "Everyone seems to be sound asleep," I told him by way of answer. "Why is it you are awake?"

Gimli smiled back (although it was almost hidden in his beard) and sat beside me—I was forced to look up at him because of my position on my back, which seemed to amuse him greatly. "A dwarf needs little sleep," he informed me, though not defensively. "And it is hard to sleep with the knowledge that I will soon see the wonders of Khazad-Dûm." He sighed heavily, leaning his head back against the wall. "I only hope that Balin still lives; if he does not, and the dwarf colony here is no more, it may mean that we are in grave danger—for it takes more than mere orcs to defeat the dwarves." He looked ominously up the dark tunnel, and I could not help but follow his gaze; I was quickly finding that I disliked being underground even more than being in the freezing snow.

We were silent for a few moments, for I could find nothing to say and Gimli made no attempt to continue the foreboding conversation he’d started. Then, abruptly, his mood changed and he looked at me with a twinkle in his brown eyes. "Young Master Peregrin seems to make a good blanket," he observed with a deep rumbling chuckle. "And you make a good pillow."

I laughed softly and looked down at the small hobbit. He was still sound asleep, but it almost seemed that he’d heard Gimli’s words, for he smiled and burrowed his head closer into my stomach. "So it seems," I answered the dwarf, still watching the young halfling. "He is very warm, although a bit too heavy for a blanket." As if on cue, Pippin moved in his sleep and one small, sharp elbow jabbed me in the stomach, producing an "oomph" from me, much to Gimli’s delight.

Slowly and carefully, so as not to wake him, I pulled myself up into a sitting position, leaning against the wall. Pippin did not stir, save to wrap his arms tightly around me chest and bury his face contentedly into my tunic. I pulled the blanket over us both.

Another silence fell over us, and again my eyes wandered over the rest of the Fellowship. Aragorn still slept peacefully, the smile lingering on his face, but his hand was now up, stroking a white jewel hanging on a fine silver chain; I had noticed it long before, but it had not occurred to me to ask about it until now. I wondered if perhaps it had been given to him by the Lady Arwen.

"Again you seem to find Aragorn’s sleep fascinating." Gimli’s voice had a note of curiosity in it. "What is it that puzzles you?"

I had not known that dwarves could read thoughts so well. "That white jewel he wears," I said quietly, pointing. "Do you know who gave it to him?" I did not know why I thought Gimli might be able to tell me more, but I felt strangely intrigued by both the jewel and Aragorn’s murmuring the name of Lord Elrond’s daughter, and my curiosity urged me to do all I could to find out more.

The dwarf looked where I pointed and shook his head. "I do not," he replied; "but it seems of Elven make."

"Yes," I mused, my determination to find out more growing stronger still, "and who would give such a gem, but an Elf?"

Gimli looked up at me, thick brows raised quizzically. "What is it you are thinking?" he asked. "Aragorn has had many dealing with the Elves—it is not so strange that he should wear something of their make."

I looked down at the dwarf, smiling slightly. "I know not why it interests me so."

Gimli smiled back. "Aragorn is a puzzle no one can solve, I think," he said. "But you might ask Master Frodo more about the jewel—and the Elf who gave it to him."

"What would Frodo know of this matter?" I asked in surprise.

"The hobbits traveled long with Aragorn before reaching Rivendell," Gimli explained, "and Sam has told me that Frodo spent much of his time in Rivendell conversing with the Elves—he knows a fair amount of their tongue. Perhaps he would know more about the matter."

Somehow, I was not truly surprised at this revelation; all four of the hobbits were remarkable, and I was beginning to think that there was nothing they were not skilled in—besides fighting, perhaps, and even that was improving.

"I shall ask him, then," I said, for the moment putting aside my curiosity. I sighed—another odd sensation with Pippin’s weight against my chest. The young halfling had not stirred at all since I moved into a sitting position, except that he continued to snore. He was surprisingly heavy on top of me, but as he was also quite warm, I felt no inclination to move him.

I opened my mouth to start another conversation with Gimli when the object of my previous thoughts awakened noiselessly and sat up to observe us with a smile.

"When did the son of Gondor’s Steward become reduced to a pillow?" asked Aragorn playfully, stretching briefly and then quietly coming over to crouch beside me, fondly ruffling Pippin’s disheveled curls as he settled against the wall. Evidently the cheerful mood that had blessed Gimli and I was shared by him, as well—none of his usual grimness was visible beneath

his good-natured smile.

"Sometime during the night," I replied with a grin. "And without my consent, I might add."

Aragorn chuckled. "Are you complaining?" he questioned, with feigned seriousness—knowing as well as I did that I would not have moved Pippin unless for great need.

"Aragorn and I could remove him for you, if you wish," Gimli added helpfully, putting out one gloved hand as if to do exactly that.

"Hands off! Touch my blanket and you will meet severe resistance, Master Dwarf," I retorted, tightening my arms around the still-snoring Pippin. I looked at Aragorn with jesting defiance. "And I will not hesitate to exchange blows with even one of my race over my warmth and comfort."

Aragorn sat back on his heels, grinning mischievously. "He does look warm," he commented thoughtfully. "I would not mind a hobbit-blanket myself at the moment." He glanced at the other three sleeping halflings with a slight shrug, then looked at Gimli and raised his eyebrows. "Do you think that they would wake if we carried them each over and used them all as blankets?"

Gimli peered around Aragorn and I. "I don’t know," he said; "they appear to be quite soundly asleep. Perhaps if you were very slow and quiet…"

"Oh, and now it is I alone?" Aragorn laughed. "What happened to ‘we’?"

"I never said that I wished to have a hobbit myself," Gimli replied with a satisfied shrug, settling back against the stone wall. "You are on your own in this venture."

Aragorn sighed, assuming a mournful expression for a moment. He looked down at Pippin with a grin. "You can keep Peregrin, Boromir," he told me. "I think he might be too sharp for me."

Again, right on cue, one of Pippin’s small elbows drove into my stomach, eliciting another undignified "oomph" from me. "Why should he would want to leave me to be your blanket?" I quipped. "Why should any of the hobbits would wish to leave their snug nest of blankets to serve as your warmth? Obviously I am the chosen favorite."

Aragorn pretended to be affronted and did not answer. Gimli and I laughed, and Aragorn only held out a second before laughing as well. Our mirth awoke poor Pippin, who raised his head and blinked up at me with sleep-filled green eyes.

"Boromir?" he questioned groggily. He looked with confusion at his own hands, still tightly holding onto my tunic. "What am I doing on top of you?"

Aragorn and Gimli still chuckled, and I smiled at Pippin. "I should ask you," I said. "I woke up with you on me." I shot a pointed glance at Aragorn.

Pippin looked as though he could not decide whether to be mortified or amused by this revelation. He evidently decided upon the latter, for he returned my smile (though I did notice that the tips of his pointed ears turned a bit red). "Oh," he said simply. Then his expression abruptly changed, and he appeared puzzled for a moment. "Boromir, I had the strangest dream about you."

Gimli and Aragorn, noticing the peculiar expression of frightened bewilderment on Pippin’s face, tactfully moved away to pack up their bedrolls and get out some food for our breakfast, leaving myself and the hobbit to talk privately.

"What was your dream about?" I asked him gently, preparing myself for silence.

Pippin did not answer for a long moment, and I began to accept that he would not, but then he spoke, in a voice barely above a whisper and trembling with some dread. "I-I saw you…you tried to…" He swallowed hard and to my surprise and concern tears filled his eyes as he looked at me for only an instant before looking down at my tunic, which his fingers began nervously playing with.

"Go on," I urged him softly; not knowing what else to do, I lightly ran my fingers through his sandy curls, in what a hoped was a soothing gesture. Apparently it was, for he leaned his head slightly back into it and drew a deep breath. I kept my hand there, stroking his hair absently.

"There were wolves—wargs," he began again, his voice steadier this time. "Just like that night, when you were bitten. Only this time, we were in here, in Moria." He shivered. "And we were running away from them, through a great big, dark hall—I couldn’t see anything because of the darkness—and then onto a narrow stone bridge. And we all ran across that, and when we got to the other side, we turned around and you and Aragorn told us hobbits to stay back, and you both raised your swords—they were shining in the dark, a sort of reddish-silver, if that makes any sense. I don’t know where Gandalf was, but I thought I heard his voice, though I couldn’t make out the words.

"Anyway, you and Aragorn stood in front of us and Legolas was behind us, ready to shoot at the wolves when they came across. And we could here them coming, but then suddenly, a huge, bright light appeared from across the bridge—it looked like fire. And some enormous black…thing was walking towards us, and the fire was all around it. The wolves were on the bridge and they howled and fell off. You and Aragorn wouldn’t move, even though Frodo and me were yelling at you to, and the thing was getting closer and closer…" He paused for a moment, got control of himself, and continued. "And then all of a sudden there was a person all in white in front of you—about the size of you and Aragorn, although it was hard to tell because it shone so brightly—and he shouted something at the fire-creature, and he sounded like Gandalf. But then they both fell off the bridge and disappeared.

"Their light stayed, and I watched you; you turned around and looked at Frodo and—" he broke off abruptly, and it was obvious that he would not continue. I asked him anyway, however, for I wished to know what I did or said to Frodo in his dream, if he would tell me.

"What happened then?"

"I don’t remember any more," Pippin answered resolutely, though I knew it was not the truth. But I did not wish to pain him further by pressing him to relive the nightmare, so I did not ask again. Instead, we sat in silence for a long while, until I thought of part of his dream that reminded me of something.

"Pippin, I never did discover exactly what happened to you and the other hobbits that night the wargs attacked us," I said. "How did that great wolf leader come to be killed?"

"Oh!" Pippin exclaimed, obviously pleased at the change of subject. "Didn’t you hear about that? I should have thought Sam would have told everyone about it by now."

"Why?" I asked, surprised. "Did he kill the wolf?"

"Well, not by himself," said Pippin, shaking his head. "It was really all four of us together—but mostly Frodo and Merry." He threw a glance at his soundly-sleeping cousins before plunging eagerly into the tale.

"When that wolf jumped at us and we were all separated, it just stood there for a second, looking at all of us as though it was trying to decide who to jump at. That was the worst part of the whole night—having it stare at you like that." He shivered again. "It jumped at me first, since I was the youngest, I suppose, and I was so frightened, I couldn’t even move. But then Frodo—he was the closest to me, I think—jumped in the wolf’s way, just as Merry did. Merry’s sword got it in the shoulder, and Frodo’s got it in the chest. But then it fell on top of Frodo and nearly flattened him. Then I came to and helped Merry push it off him, right after Sam ran over and finished it off; it was still alive, you see. It took all three of us to move it, and Frodo couldn’t even talk for a minute once he was free—which scared us half to death, I can tell you. But once he could breathe properly again, he sat up and can you guess what was the first thing he said? ‘Are you all right, Pippin?’ he asks; not so much as an ‘ouch.’ Then we all stood up and Aragorn came over and asked us if we were all right, which we were of course, and then you came over," he finished, chuckling.

I was silent a moment, churning over his story in my mind. "So, Frodo and Merry were the heroes of the night," I said at last, smiling at him. "And you four hobbits brought down the wolf, which I could not overpower myself, and came out of it unscathed."

"Well, I didn’t really do much," said Pippin quickly. "I was too scared to move—more frightened than I’ve been in all my life, if you want to know."

"And the boldest could not blame you," I assured him truthfully, fondly ruffling his hair. "Wolves are terrifying creatures—even men fear them greatly. And do not forget that he was twice your size! I count it a brave deed to have been able to move at all when you did, and to continue on this Quest in the face of such dangers."

Pippin looked up at me quickly. "There is nothing that would stop me from continuing," he said firmly, looking incredulous at the very thought. "After all, Cousin Frodo would not stand a chance of getting to Mt. Doom without my navigational skills!"

I nearly laughed aloud, but caught myself just in time, not wishing to wake the rest of the Company, and reduced it to a restrained chortle. "Where would we be without Peregrin the Navigator?" I teased, earning a hastily muffled laugh from him. "I shudder to think what would happen to us without him."

"But a great navigator I cannot be without food," Pippin quipped, sliding off me and shaking off the blanket in a way that reminded me of a wet dog. "And that in good supply. Speaking of which," he continued, raising his voice and directing his words to Aragorn and Gimli, "there is an appalling lack of victuals this morning—will no one start some breakfast?"

So saying, he hurried over to the other hobbits and woke them faster than any of us could have done; for each he used a different tactic, and I watched with curious interest, ready to stow away his methods for future use if the need arose.

He began with Merry first, and his approach was quite simple: he began shaking him by the shoulders, rather forcefully; and nimbly avoiding his kinsman’s fist that shot up defensively in the air, he threw off the blanket. In an instant, Merry was on his feet, eyes alert, and his first act was to race over to his pack, dig through it a moment, and bring out an apple—how he kept the seemingly endless store of them fresh is a mystery to me. He offered Pippin no help in waking the other two, but walked over to join Aragorn and Gimli, quickly becoming engaged in conversation.

Pippin then targeted Sam, despite the face that Frodo was closest; and again, his trick was simple: he merely bent his head close to Sam’s ear, and said in a voice that was not raised even slightly above normal, "Sam! Get breakfast ready for half-past nine! Have you got the bath water hot?"

As though roused by a bell, Sam sat up, still bleary-eyed and confused. "No, sir, I haven’t, sir!" he said quickly; then rubbing his eyes, he saw Pippin standing before him, grinning, and he returned the gesture good-naturedly. "You never fail in wakin’ me up, Mr. Pippin," he remarked, and with a glance down at Frodo, who was still asleep, and a quick, fond squeeze of his master’s hand, he quietly got up and began getting out the things needed for a cold, rather scant breakfast.

It was then that I saw why Pippin had kept Frodo for last. The Ringbearer had hardly stirred when Sam was awoken, and was again soundly asleep—a blessing he did not often receive, I had noticed. I knew, as did Pippin, that he would wish to be woken up with the rest of us, but I could not help but feel that he should be allowed as much sleep as he was able to attain.

Evidently Pippin felt the same, for he silently sat down, cross-legged, beside Frodo, the mirth now gone from his face, replaced by an uncharacteristically somber, thoughtful expression. Observing that he desired a quiet moment alone with his cousin, I respectfully busied myself with other things—I drew out my sword and began polishing it; no idle task, for in this eerie, black Mine it seemed good sense to keep our weapons at the ready.

Listening to the others’ cheerful conversation—Gandalf and Legolas had now awoken—I did not hear what Pippin was quietly murmuring to Frodo, or to himself, and it soon my mind was thinking on other things. It was not until a fair ten minutes later when I realized that Pippin and Frodo were the only ones not huddled together in the circle, eating breakfast as merrily as was possible; and I turned curiously to see what could be taking them—I had never seen Peregrin Took late for food on all our long journey.

I turned and saw both Pippin and Frodo, sitting beside each other and speaking in low voices. Pippin’s face was somber and his eyes downcast; he held both of Frodo’s hands in his own and seemed to be clinging to them tightly while his cousin spoke to him. It seemed that Frodo was trying to convince of something, for he was speaking earnestly and bending his head down to meet Pippin’s eyes.

This scene both confused and worried me, and I wished to go over to them and learn what the trouble was; but I decided against it, for it did not seem right to intrude—though I could not help but watch them in concern.

After a moment, their fervent discussion became a quiet argument—Pippin raised his head and was speaking sharply, it looked like; and Frodo was replying firmly and confidently, countering everything Pippin said with quick, low words.

I could not now tear my eyes away from the two, although it may have seemed discourteous to watch their private discussion. But it was only out of friendly concern that I did so; I had never seen them argue, and I was deeply worried for Peregrin.

Pippin’s voice was rising in agitation, and Frodo hushed him with a quick word, which brought an unexpected change in the younger hobbit’s manner. He stopped midsentence, and suddenly his expression became grief-stricken and he turned to Frodo, mumbled something, and then bent his head as though ashamed. Frodo’s eyes filled with concern, and he placed his free hand on the top of Pippin’s head, his fingers lightly stroking the unruly sandy curls, and murmured something I could not hear.

Pippin looked up as if in disbelief. "But Boro—" he cried, loud enough for me to hear. He turned to look at me, and both he and Frodo started to see me watching them. Pippin turned crimson and his eyes seemed to fill with tears. Alarmed, and not wanting them to think ill of me, I hurried quietly over to them.

"Forgive me for watching you," I said softly, placing my hand on Pippin’s small shoulder. I was surprised and dismayed when he flinched and made as if to move away from my touch; then he lifted his head to look at me and allowed my hand to stay where it was, although he still felt tense. "I did so only out of concern for you," I continued earnestly, fearful that Pippin would become unfriendly with me. "You both looked distressed—is there aught I can do to help?" I knew before the words were spoken that there was not, and guessed that this had something to do with Pippin’s dream, but I attempted anyway.

"You are very kind, Boromir," said Frodo, trying to smile at me, although it did not seem genuine. "I fear there is nothing you can do at the moment, but I thank you for your concern."

I nodded. "Pippin," I said, and he raised his eyes almost fearfully to meet mine, "can I get you anything? Would you like me to—"

"No, Boromir," Pippin interrupted me. "I mean, no thank you. I am all right now—I didn’t feel well a moment ago, but it’s passed now." To convince me, he stood up and he smiled, truly. "And it has been replaced with hunger—is breakfast ready yet?" He grinned at me, evidently making up, and I returned the gesture in relief. With a glance down at Frodo, who also smiled at him, and a final squeeze of his kinsman’s hands, he scurried over to the others, immediately joining in their conversation, as merrily as though nothing at happened.

I stood, and then bent and reached down a hand to help Frodo to his feet. He seemed as confused as I by Pippin’s sudden mood change, but after watching his cousin for a minute, he clicked his tongue in playful reproach. "He seems to enjoy worrying the rest of us half to death and then suddenly bouncing back to his normal self unexpectedly," he told me, shaking his head with a laugh—although I knew that his explanation did not apply to what had just happened.

"He’s quite good at it, isn’t he?" I asked, playing along, as we made our way to the others.

"Oh, yes," Frodo agreed. "And he should be, with all the practice he gets—I fear we three old hobbits are quite gullible."

"Old?" I exclaimed, laughing. We had paused a few feet away from the group.

"Well, compared to a tween like Pip, we’re quite old," said Frodo. "Although really Merry and Sam aren’t that much older than he is."

"How old are they?" I asked curiously, eager to know more of this interesting race of people.

"Merry’s thirty-six, and Sam is thirty-eight," Frodo told me. "Barely of age."

"And you, Frodo?" I questioned, wondering why he had only mentioned Merry and Sam’s ages, when surely he could not be more than a few years older than Pippin? He looked younger than the other two, certainly. "How old are you?"

The laughter left Frodo’s eyes and he smile faded. "I’m fifty," he said with a sigh. "Middle-age for hobbits, you know, although Pippin seems to think I’m terribly old."

I could not speak for astonishment, looking down at the halfling beside me, with his young, fine-featured face and dark curls without a hint of grey. Frodo saw my shock and smiled a little. "I know, I don’t look it," he said before I could speak. "We Bagginses tend to be long-lived, although…" He paused for a moment, as though unsure whether or not to continue. "…although the Ring is mostly responsible for that."

Before I could reply, he mumbled an excuse and abruptly went to join the others, sitting wordlessly beside Sam and seeming troubled. I stood there for a moment longer, the surprise fading away and being replaced by mingled frustration and sadness—sadness that such a gentle creature should be so tormented by that Thing that it caused him distress to even speak of It. But frustration that no one seemed willing to listen to me and spare him this suffering.

I stopped that thought before I grew angry, and hastened over to sit down with the others, eager to get my mind on other things. In that I was successful, and both Frodo and I were soon as merry as the others while we ate breakfast. Then Gandalf stood, and instantly the mood of the Company was darkened as he spoke.

"I fear it is time to move on," he said heavily. "We cannot linger in any place too long, and if we move quickly, we may get through Moria in four days."

With a sigh, we all got to our feet and prepared to leave, the morning’s cheerfulness instantly disappearing at the thought of more traveling through the gloomy, no doubt dangerous mines. The packing was done quickly, as we had not unpacked much, and we were soon on our way again up the broken, stone staircases and through the dark tunnels of Moria.

All this darkness and silence has effected my mood, and I am now pensive and rather depressed, walking quietly beside Aragorn, who also shares my disheartened frame of mind. The Ring troubles me, as do the Mines, and I find myself thinking wistfully of what could happen were the Ring entrusted to me and brought to Gondor.

I am so deep in these imaginings that I jump when I feel a touch at my elbow and a small voice speaks up. "Boromir," Pippin says, "I’m tired. Do you know how much farther there is to go?"

I smile wearily, at Pippin, who is panting and truly does look exhausted already. "Here, little one," I say, kneeling down. "The ceiling is high here—you can ride on my shoulders for a while, if you do not mind the rather undignified position. I daresay it’s more comfortable than being on my back."

He hesitates for a moment, and then grins and I help him clamber on. "Thank you, Boromir," he says earnestly, bringing a genuine smile to my face. I hear Aragorn chuckle tiredly beside me, but my attention is on Pippin.

"Let me know when you wish to come down," I tell him, standing up.

"Oh, I’m sure that won’t be for a long while," he replies mischievously. "I rather enjoy being up so high…"

Might I have just made a mistake in letting him up there?

To be continued...

The Folly of the Wise ~ Part 7

"Do you know, Boromir, that we have been walking for two hours straight now?"

"No, indeed I did not. I find it difficult to keep track of the time in such darkness. I am ready to believe your estimation, though."

Merry and I were whispering together at the rear of the company as we felt our way along the walls of a wide passageway. We had been walking for what seemed much longer than Merry’s guess of two hours, but our undisturbed sleep the night (if it had indeed been night) before had left us all surprisingly well-rested.

The hobbits—especially the younger two—seemed the most energetic of all. Even Frodo and Sam seemed merrier and less burdened with worry, and that gladdened my heart greatly. Pippin, however, quickly grew bored, finding no outlet for all his energy, and had hardly spoken a word since our last halt. But I had been watching him glance about with his eager green eyes, searching for anything potentially amusing or exciting. To his obvious dismay, he had so far found nothing, and he shuffled gloomily beside Frodo.

Merry, as I was quickly learning, was interesting company, and I was amazed anew at the seemingly unlimited talents and skills of the hobbit-race. "I have been trying to keep the time in my head since we started after our last rest," he now explained to me with a modest grin. "Something to do, you know. I’m sure I’m a little off, but I think it’s about right. Two hours, more or less."

I shook my head in admiration. "I am beginning to think that the only thing you Shirefolk are incapable of is fasting for any length of time."

Merry chuckled, his dark blue eyes twinkling in the dim white light of Gandalf’s staff. "I think you’re probably right about that," he said. "We hobbits have many talents, but going without food for extended periods of time is not one of them. Besides farming, the growing of pipeweed, and the smoking of pipeweed, our greatest skill is keeping out of trouble."

He laughed softly again, looking around the tunnel and trailing his fingers along the rough stone wall. "We have a saying in the Shire: Don’t trouble trouble until trouble’s troubled you. Obviously Frodo and Pippin and I have never been very good at following that one—well, actually Pippin and I might have grown up into fine, practical hobbits if it weren’t for Frodo’s bad influence. Sam is far more sensible, but he is more concerned with following his own saying: Never leave your master. He’s quite good at following that."

Merry smiled fondly at Sam as the faithful servant walked closely beside his master, watching him continually to make sure no harm befell him. Such loyalty in a servant speaks highly not only of the servant, but also of the master, for true devotion is not easily obtained—it cannot be won through fear or cruelty, but through kindness and mutual cooperation. I realized that my thoughts were echoing Faramir’s words; he had once become furious with me (a rare thing, for it took a great deal to cause Faramir to lose his temper) for berating a slow servant. But now that I had seen these two, I realized the wisdom, and the truth, in those words.

Interesting, I mused, watching as Sam stumbled over a hidden stone and Frodo quickly grabbed his arm to help him regain his balance, that in a society so grounded in tradition and unchanging customs, these two should be defying the rules of class with scarcely a thought about it. Frodo, from what I had learned of him, was likely not the least bit afraid of being open in his friendship with Sam. As for Sam, though he seemed to insist on keeping to his social position in front of others, it was clear that Frodo was much more dear to him than a master. Again these two reminded me of brothers… though perhaps less apt to quarrel over differences in our personalities than Faramir and I.

Merry’s voice caught my attention again and pulled me from my musings. "I fear, Boromir, that you are in the company of the most disreputable and unhobbitlike hobbits in the Shire—besides Sam, again. The Tooks are notorious for being queer, and disappearing on sudden adventures," he drawled, evidently repeating common belief among the more ordinary Shire-folk; "and the Brandybucks live on the ‘wrong side’ of the Brandywine River and far too close to the Old Forest to be right in the heads. And the Bagginses—well, I fear that Bilbo and Frodo have permanently ruined their family name."

I chuckled. "Well, you may not be the most respectable hobbits in the Shire," I said, "but you are certainly the most interesting."

Merry grinned mischievously. "Oh, certainly," he agreed. "Some hobbits could bore you to tears with their company."

A sudden change in our surroundings cut short our friendly talk, and we found ourselves traveling upwards, on ground that was rocky and uneven, causing everyone—save the nimble Legolas, of course—to stumble at least once. At the top of this road, we reached a narrow ridge that still climbed upwards, winding on endlessly. We had evidently entered the actual Mines, for empty buckets suspended by ropes hung above us, some so low we taller folk were forced to duck beneath them, and broken ladders were placed slanted against the ledge that formed a ceiling above us, creating more obstacles to duck under.

The ridge twisted and turned for some time, and then as we rounded a sharp corner, Gandalf slowed his pace, and then stopped. Legolas ducked under a ladder that slanted across the path to step beside him, and gazed down, and something silver was reflected in his bright Elven eyes. The rest of us followed carefully; the path was much narrower here.

"The wealth of Moria was not in gold, or jewels," said Gandalf, turning toward us after examining something in the rock walls, "but mithril."

Gandalf raised his staff and the light radiating from it began to brighten, illuminating the cavern and the chasm below us. Peering cautiously down, my breath caught at the wonder that glimmered below me. The chasm was a shaft, with more decaying ladders and long-unused buckets hanging down. Some sort of silver metal glittered brightly in the light from Gandalf’s staff, glowing almost blue as far down as the eye could see, like thousands of stars.

An awed silence fell on the Company; all felt the same wonder that I did. Merry would have stepped closer to the edge to get a better look, but Pippin wordlessly kept his cousin safely back. There was wonder even on Legolas and Aragorn’s faces. Gimli looked mesmerized by the sight, unable to tear his eyes away from it.

Beside me, Sam gulped as he looked down (obviously he was not comfortable with such great heights) and pressed closer to Frodo, who, after a reassuring smile at him, stepped a bit closer to the edge to look down, undaunted by the height. Sam choked and nearly yanked his master back against the rock wall; but he restrained himself to putting a cautioning hand on Frodo’s arm and pulling back just a bit. Frodo understood and reluctantly obeyed, though not without directing a look of amusement at Sam, who blushed and hastily removed his hand.

Gandalf began to move on, and reluctantly we followed him. "Bilbo had a shirt of mithril rings, that Thorin gave him," he remarked, feeling along the walls that I saw now glittered with thin veins of mithril.

Gimli looked about to burst with excitement. "What? A shirt of Moria-silver?" he exclaimed. "That was a kingly gift!"

"Yes," Gandalf agreed, chuckling a bit. "I never told him, but its worth was greater than the value of the Shire."

From my place behind him, I could not see Frodo’s face, but he paused for a moment at the wizard’s words, and I could imagine his surprise. Mithril must have been precious indeed for a shirt of it to be worth so much!

Gandalf led us on, and we found a place where the path widened out somewhat. The wizard allowed us a brief halt, and the hobbits managed to hastily eat a few of Merry’s apples—the last ones, judging by his crestfallen expression. Gandalf allowed us only a few minutes, and then forced us onward again.

Following the winding stone path, we eventually came to a staircase so steep it seemed to go straight up. After pausing for only a moment, Gandalf, at the head of the Company, began to ascend the stone steps, forced to use one hand for extra balance. The others soon followed his example, and Merry hurried to catch up with Pippin, fearful (as was I) that the youngest hobbit might fall.

We slowly climbed the stairs in single file, the hobbits using both hands and feet to pull themselves up, and even Aragorn, Gimli and I were obliged to use our hands for balance occasionally. Of course, Legolas was undisturbed by the angle of the stairs, and ascended as easily as if he were walking on flat ground. I saw more than one member of the Company glance at him enviously, including myself.

"Blasted Elves," I heard Gimli mutter under his breath. A step or two ahead of me, Aragorn, carrying a torch that he and the Dwarf had managed to light with Gimli’s ubiquitous tinderbox, chuckled slightly and also muttered a comment about the Elf Prince, but I could not catch it. Legolas did, however, and he paused to give Aragorn such an icy stare that I almost expected the Ranger to freeze where he stood. But he merely laughed, said something in what must have been Elvish, and ignored Legolas. The Elf retorted quickly, but unfortunately for me it was again in his own tongue. Evidently he felt that he had put Aragorn in his place, for he allowed himself a smug smile at the silent Ranger before coolly continuing at an even swifter pace. Aragorn shook his fist at the Elf’s back, though a grin played at the corners of his mouth.

Eventually, the stairs began to curve to the right, and they gradually began to get easier to climb. I wanted to heave a sigh of relief as the steps grew easier on my aching back and legs, and I knew that it was a feeling shared by everyone else. Merry glanced back at me with a smile, obviously grateful that he would no longer have to guard Pippin so closely. The young hobbit had nearly fallen twice, the second time caused when he had slipped on some small stones, which sent them showering into Merry’s upturned face, much to his annoyance.

A gloomy silence fell over the Company as we toiled on, and the only sound was our labored breathing and an occasional mutter from Gimli. Even the hobbits were silent and depressed, walking closely together, curly heads drooping wearily. My heart ached for them; they felt the exhaustion much more heavily than the rest of us, but they bore it without complaint or falter, and I could not help admiring them even as I pitied them.

Gimli had fallen back until he was toiling along beside me, using his axe as a sort of walking stick. "My race is hardy enough to go great distances without rest," he rumbled, "but these deuced stairs tire even a dwarf." He caught my arm as I stumbled suddenly, on a broken step, and helped me regain my balance.

"Thank you," I gasped, unable to speak further as I was struggling enough just to breathe.

"You can be sure that the dwarves did not build these stairs so unevenly," he replied. "They must have been a great sight, once, but they have been long neglected, it seems."

"This must have been a wondrous place," I agreed, looking up at the stony roof above me, which glittered with the silver-blue veins of mithril in the light of Gandalf’s staff.

Gimli sighed deeply. "And let us hope that there is some part of it that still is," he said, and fell silent.

***

Several hours passed, monotonously—after the stairs came another long, winding stone path, and then more stairs, just as difficult and interminable as the first set. The miles stretched on endlessly, each darker than the last, but all the same, save for an occasional dust-filled well or a glint of mithril in the stone walls to glance at. Or once, while in a cavernous place with a vastly high ceiling, a group of bats we startled from their sleep on the cave’s roof—an encounter which then led to a lengthy debate between a very bored Merry and Pippin on whether many bats were called a flock, a horde, or something else. Though their argument only grated on all our wearied nerves and they were soon hushed by Gandalf (and even Frodo and Sam told them to cease), one could hardly blame them. My thoughts were occupied by trying to decide whether to pull out my hair in boredom, pound my fists into the cave wall in frustration, or simply collapse and never bother to move again.

And then came our first serious check.

"I have no memory of this place."

Gandalf’s words were like a death knell to my heart. At first I went numb with shock that our leader—however much I begrudgingly admitted him as such—would have lost his way, and then I felt anger building in my chest; hot, ardent fury, that made me so like my father and so different from my brother. Often before had it caused me to act rashly and say things I eventually regretted, and I nearly did so again.

But just as I opened my mouth to let loose my furious torrent on Gandalf, my glance fell on Pippin. He was white-faced, I could see even in the dim light, and standing close beside Frodo and Merry as if he might need their support at any moment. His green eyes were wide and fixed in disbelief on Gandalf.

I saw that the other hobbits were also astonished, and a little frightened. Merry’s eyes were as round as Pippin’s but he was staring into space, evidently deep in thought, a consoling arm draped over Pippin’s shoulders. Frodo was biting his lip and apparently studying the rocks that served as a floor, also lost in thought. His dark brows were drawn down, as if he was trying to work something out, and as I watched he glanced behind him and cocked his head for a moment, as though listening to something. I could hear nothing—dead silence had fallen over the Company—and evidently neither could he, for after looking ’round behind us and straining his ears for a moment, he turned back with a sigh—of relief? It appeared so, though I had no idea why.

Sam’s reaction to our difficulty was similar to that of Pippin’s: he looked utterly shocked, his mouth hanging slightly open, brown eyes round, as though the very thought of Gandalf being wrong or misguiding us had never occurred to him. I saw him swallow hard and glance at Frodo—who seemed to be the most relaxed of all the hobbits now—before dropping his pack from his shoulders and rummaging through it, as he always did when worried.

The sight of the hobbits reminded me to check my anger and I closed my mouth. Losing my temper would not help any of them, and Pippin, especially, was already frightened enough. I was still upset, of course, but I kept myself quiet, trying to bear this trouble like a soldier; stoically and silently.

Finally, Gandalf sat down heavily on one of the large rocks beside the staircase and sighed. "We may as well rest here," he announced, "while I try to decipher where we are."

I barely kept back a snort of disgust as I walked around the rocks and sat down on a small, broken staircase that led down, and I saw for the first time that our path looped around the rocks in the middle and went back the way we had come—we would get nowhere following it!

The rest of the Fellowship spread out quietly, Frodo sitting beside Gandalf while the other hobbits went past me a few steps to a small stone landing and settled down together, Merry getting out his pipe while Sam and Pippin rummaged around in their packs for some food. Legolas followed them and stood on the edge of the landing, leaning against the stone wall with his bow in hand and his arms crossed over it, pressing it to his chest so that he was comfortable—as comfortable as any of us were, at any rate—but able to jump into action quickly if need be. Gimli settled down on the floor beside the elf, getting out his axe and polishing it.

Aragorn stood by Frodo and Gandalf, talking quietly to the wizard—in truth, arguing might have been nearer the mark, for his expression was strained and though his voice was soft, he was obviously speaking earnestly. I watched them for a moment, only vaguely interested in their dispute, and then turned my thoughts elsewhere.

Setting my large, heavy shield beside me, I stretched my legs out with relief; my whole body was stiff and aching from the long, steep staircases, and my knees were sore from being bent for so long. I felt as though I had just come from a battle. Much as I hated the situation we were now in, I was grateful for the rest.

I stretched and eased my aching muscles for a few minutes, and then tried to get comfortable on the stone steps for a few more. After a while, I finally resigned myself to the slightly uncomfortable position of sitting up with my elbows propped on my knees, my chin balanced in my hands, with my thick fur-lined cloak protecting my seat from the hard stone.

I brooded for a long while—I am not sure even now what my thoughts were exactly, except that they were, like my mood, dark and dismal. Gradually, however, I became aware that Sam and Gimli were talking, and as I had never yet seen those two carry on a discussion together, I pricked up my ears and listened.

Evidently Samwise, after making sure that Merry and Pippin were comfortable and fed—Pippin, laying on his side atop his cloak was drowsily munching an apple with his head resting in the lap of Merry, who was leaning back against the wall behind him and taking slow puffs of his pipe, one hand thoughtfully stroking his younger kinsman’s hair—and glancing protectively at his master, had come over to sit beside Gimli. Both, in a rare show of sociability for them, had somehow begun a conversation—stemmed from a comment from the wide-eyed Sam about the vastness of Moria.

"There must have been a mighty crowd of dwarves here at one time," Sam was saying as I began to pay attention, "and every one of them busier than badgers for five hundred years to make all this, and most in hard rock too! What did they do it all for? They didn’t live in these darksome holes surely?"

"These are not holes," said Gimli. "This is the great realm and city of the Dwarrowdelf. And of old it was not darksome, but full of light and splendor, as it is still remembered in our songs."

Pippin raised his head from Merry’s lap for a moment. "Will you sing us one of those songs, Gimli?" he asked. "I’ve never heard a dwarf song before."

"Yes, please do, Gimli," Merry added.

Gimli needed no further coaxing, to my surprise—I would have thought that the dwarf would be more reserved on this subject, as it was obvious that Moria had fallen far from its former glory. But evidently it was still a place of great pride for him, and he rose and began to chant in his deep, rumbling voice that echoed through the stone halls.

"The world was young, the mountains green,

No stain yet on the moon was seen,

No words were laid on stream or stone,

When Durin woke and walked alone.

He named the nameless hills and dells;

He drank from yet untasted wells;

He stooped and looked in Mirrormere,

And saw a crown and stars appear,

As gems upon a silver thread,

Above the shadow of his head.

"The world was fair, the mountains tall,

In Elder Days before the fall

Of mighty kings in Nargothrond

And Gondolin, who now beyond

The Western Seas have passed away;

The world was fair in Durin’s day.

"A king he was on carven throne

In many-pillared halls of stone

With golden roof and silver floor,

And runes of power upon the door.

The light of sun and star and moon

In shining lamps of crystal hewn

Undimmed by cloud or shade of night

There shone for ever fair and bright.

"There hammer on the anvil smote,

There chisel clove, and graver wrote;

There forged was blade, and bound was hilt;

The delver mined, the mason built.

There beryl, pearl, and opal pale,

And metal wrought like fishes’ mail,

Buckler and corslet, axe and sword,

And shining spears were laid in hoard.

"Unwearied then were Durin’s folk;

Beneath the mountains music woke;

The harpers harped, the minstrels sang,

And at the gates the trumpets rang.

"The world is grey, the mountains old,

The forge’s fire is ashen-cold;

No harp is wrung, no hammer falls:

The darkness dwells in Durin’s halls;

The shadow lies upon his tomb

In Moria, in Khazad-Dûm.

But still the sunken stars appear

In dark and windless Mirrormere;

There lies his crown in waters deep,

Till Durin wakes again from sleep."

Gimli’s voice died away in deep, distant echoes that could be heard clearly in the complete silence that had fallen on the Company. The dwarf sat back down, his eyes distant as he fell into deep thought. Legolas, standing beside him, also seemed to be lost in memory, a small smile playing about his lips.

As for myself, I felt for the first time a bit—small, perhaps—of the sadness the dwarves bore for their lost kingdom, and the dark, broken halls and staircases of Moria looked somehow forlorn now. I wondered, with a shiver at the thought, if in years to come, Men would sing laments such as Gimli’s for the great city of Minas Tirith, telling of its valiant but hopeless struggle against Mordor and final, tragic fall. Hastily I stopped that train of thought.

I turned my attention to Sam, since I had heard that he especially enjoyed tales and songs. He was staring down one of the stone halls, his brown eyes wide, an enthralled smile growing on his face. "I like that!" he finally said, turning to Gimli and bringing the dwarf out of his reverie. "I should like to learn it. In Moria, in Khazad-Dûm! But it makes the darkness seem heavier, thinking of all those lamps. And all that for mithril?" He looked around him and shook his head. "Seems like a mighty bit o’ work to me."

"Mithril!" Gimli exclaimed; but he was not angry with the well-meaning hobbit, as I feared, and contrary to his impatient, quick-tempered nature, he tolerantly explained mithril’s value. "Here alone in all the world can it be found; true-silver or Moria-silver as some have called it. It can be beaten like copper, and polished like glass; and we dwarves can make of it a metal, light and yet harder than tempered steel. Its beauty is like to that of common silver, but the beauty of mithril does not tarnish or grow dim."

Gimli trailed off and fell silent, and again I sensed the sadness the dwarves bore for their kingdom and their treasure. I saw now why they desired so much to come back to Moria, and found myself hoping sincerely that they would succeed, though my own commonsense reminded me that it was very likely an impossible mission. But nonetheless, I did hope for their victory, however pointlessly.

"I wonder what became of Bilbo’s mithril shirt," Merry remarked, still thoughtfully stroking the now drowsing Pippin’s curls. "Still gathering dust in the Michel Delving Museum, I suppose. I should have liked to look at it more closely now that I know more about mithril."

Out of the corner of my eye I observed that Frodo had turned his head to listen when Gimli began chanting his song, and now I saw him smile slightly at Merry’s words, one hand pressed over his heart. His smile seemed wistful, almost melancholy, and I supposed that he must have been thinking of his aged kinsman. Though I did not get much opportunity to speak with Bilbo, I enjoyed his company when those opportunities presented themselves, for he was very learned—but like all his race, always merry and affable. He spoke often of Frodo, and with great paternal tenderness and affection, for, he told me, he had adopted the Ringbearer—his cousin, though to what degree I could never keep straight—some years ago, after Frodo was orphaned, and raised him as his own son. I could not doubt that the fondness he felt for his cousin was shared and returned by Frodo, and it saddened me again that two such pure-hearted creatures should be parted by the folly of the Wise.

‘It does not have to be so.’

That voice. I froze, my heart suddenly giving a quiver of nervousness. The Ring’s voice, sweet and alluring, echoed eerily through the stone halls and sent an involuntary shudder through me.

‘It does not have to be so, Boromir son of Denethor. You know this. You, alone, see the folly of this Quest. You, alone, could take Me, and keep Me, and set to rights all the troubles in the world."

I shivered again, closing my eyes.

"Both Frodo and Bilbo are indeed gentle, noble creatures. They are deserving of more than separation and endless, worrisome waiting for one, and exile, torment and death for the other. With Me, you could bring them together again, send them safely back to their home, and perhaps even grant them both, if you so desired, life eternal."

A cold sweat broke out on my brow. Life eternal? Immortality? The gift of the Elves that all mankind has desired and sought since time began would be in my power to grant to others… and myself?

"What would hinder you? Everyone you love, and honor, and protect, could be granted the longevity of the Elves. With Me."

The voice paused, and behind my eyelids flashed an image of my beautiful mother, young and merry and loving. Of Faramir, never growing old and grey. Of my father, restored to youth and vigor…

"Yes, all these things are possible," the Ring continued softly, "and more, with Me. Your mother restored to life and beauty, your father, your brother… whomever you chose. And what of the dwarves? Do you not pity them and wish for their success in regaining Moria and restoring its former glory? That, too, I could do. You have but to take Me and make Me yours."

I swallowed hard, my heart thudding in my ears. So much good could be done with this Power, this Strength that lay within my grasp. So close… Frodo would see, he would want to return to the Shire with Bilbo and the others, to live in peace and comfort forever. Surely he would not turn away from such an opportunity? I had only to speak with him, sensibly and rationally, appealing to his own commonsense, and he would agree that it was the best course. But I must find him alone, and how was I to accomplish that? If not Aragorn, Gandalf, Merry or Pippin, Sam was hovering around him almost constantly. But there must be a way…

A sudden hand on my arm startled me from my imaginings and I jumped. Looking down, I saw that Samwise had come over to sit beside me, a folded woolen blanket in his arms. Having gotten my attention, he hastily removed his hand, blushing. "Sorry for interruptin’ your thoughts, Mr. Boromir," he said timidly, "but you look a mite cold, if you don’t mind me sayin’ so, sir."

Blinking a few times to clear my head, I realized that I was, indeed, shivering—though not, chiefly, because of the cold. Sam’s shy generosity brought an involuntary smile to my lips. "I thank you for your kindness, Samwise," I said, nodding. "It is indeed quite chill in these dark caves. But," I added, my smile growing into a playful grin, "you must not call me Mister Boromir. Simply Boromir, if you will."

"Aye, sir," said Sam hesitantly, blushing even deeper, "if you want me to, sir. But you must call me Sam, then."

"Agreed."

"Here, would you like this blanket?" Without waiting for an answer, he unfolded it and laid it carefully across my lap. "There you are. I know it’s too small to do much good, but it’ll help, some, maybe."

"Thank you, Sam," I repeated, touched by his kindness. "It does help. Do you always carry spare blankets in your pack?"

Sam settled himself down on the step beside me, and smiled. "Well, sir, Mr. Frodo gets chilled easy—’specially after… after Weathertop." His voice dropped to a whisper at the last word and his face clouded for a moment, but then, shaking himself, he brightened again. "But it’s also on account of ’im bein’ so thin—not natural for a hobbit, that isn’t. So I allus make sure to bring extra blankets for ’im." He glanced up at his master with a fond smile, making sure that Frodo appeared warm enough with only his cloak. Satisfied that he did, Sam turned his attention back to me, his honest brown eyes shining in the dim light. "Is it helpin’ any?"

I was pleased and somewhat surprised to find that despite the blanket’s small size, it had indeed brought heat back to my legs, and I did feel a great deal warmer, in fact. "Yes, very much," I said. "Thank you."

Sam fairly glowed with pleasure that he had helped, and I was astonished again by the kind, generous hearts that beat within these hobbits, all of them. Men could learn much from them. Such innocence and gentleness was a rare thing, now, it seemed—was the West the only part of Middle-Earth yet free from Mordor’s shadow? Inwardly I shivered at merely the thought of that accursed place, and the Ring’s seductive voice echoed in my mind.

"Boromir?" Sam’s voice brought me back to the present. "Sir? Are you all right?"

I shook the dismal thoughts from my head and forced a smile at him. "I am fine, Sam," I assured him. "But this darkness does not do much to encourage cheerful thoughts."

Sam nodded. "That’s certain true. But if you think on somethin’ besides the darkness—like that mithril stuff that Gimli sung about—it don’t seem so bad after a while."

We were both silent for a while, as I mulled over his advice—of course I could not tell him that it was not, in truth, the darkness of Moria that troubled me, and that distracting myself from the real anxiety I felt was surely easier said than done. Nevertheless, I was grateful for his kindness, and I was able to focus on that, for the moment.

But it was only for that moment; presently Sam stood up and brushed himself off. "I’d best be seein’ to our packs—Mr. Gandalf won’t likely let me build a fire, so I’ll have to see if I can find somethin’ to eat without one."

"Thank you for the blanket," I said, handing it to him. "I am much warmer now."

Sam gave me the same appraising look that I’d seen him give Frodo many a time when he suspected that his master was hiding his true discomfort or worry, but I was completely honest and he nodded after a moment. "Glad it helped, sir," he said. "And…" He hesitated, suddenly shy again. "And I’d like to talk with you again, sir, an’ learn more about your home. If you wouldn’t mind, o’ course," he added hastily, looking as though he expected me to grow angry with him.

"I would like nothing better than to tell you of Gondor," I assured him, pleased by his curiosity. "It is a sad land now, shadowed by the Black Lands, but it was fair and powerful once, and its beauty and strength has not quite vanished yet."

His brown eyes grew round. "I’d dearly like to see it someday!" he said earnestly. "How big the world is outside our little Shire!" he exclaimed, with all the wonder of a child. He blushed slightly at his own excitement, but as I smiled at him, he returned the gesture. "Thank you, sir, I’ll look forward to hearin’ about it."

With a polite nod, Sam folded the blanket quickly and hurried off to see to the packs beside Merry and Pippin. I watched him for a moment more, wondering. What honest, innocent creatures these hobbits were, and so cheerful! I realized that I had discovered the epitome of hobbit-nature in Sam—he was exactly as the Halflings had been described in one of the books Gandalf gave to my brother. Down to earth, good-natured, honest, hard-working, and charmingly simple… all these qualities were to be found in Sam, along with the hidden courage and strength hobbits seemed to possess also, though they did not know of it. When Faramir had read about them aloud to me, I had scoffed at the idea of such creatures existing—as many of my people still do; and it is not surprising, with our great land dying around us. But if they could but see these hobbits, they would realize what we were fighting for—their courage and confidence would be restored.

And imagine how much greater would that courage and confidence be restored if they were to see the Ring of Power wielded against the Dark Lord himself!

The thought came to my mind unbidden, and with it, more imaginings, each greater and darker: Gondor restored with the Ring—or destroyed, if the Ring were cast into the fire…

***

I do not know how long I sat here, deep in thought—evidently it was some time, for Aragorn had, without my being aware of it, come to sit beside me and was settled comfortably, smoking his pipe—when I am brought back to reality by Gandalf’s voice.

"Ah!" he exclaims suddenly, making us all jump. He glances at us, a grin of satisfaction on his face. "It’s that way."

Our reaction is instantaneous. Everyone jumps to their feet, hurriedly gathering together what few gear we had unpacked. Merry shakes Pippin awake, tells him the news, and pulls the pipe out of his mouth to cry with relief, "He’s remembered!" as he springs up, rolling Pippin unceremoniously out of his lap.

As we gather at the mouth of the tunneled staircase to the far left, Gandalf turns to Merry, who is standing beside him—already having put out his pipe and stuffed it into his pack. "No," he says, in answer to the hobbit’s earlier exclamation; "but the air doesn’t smell so foul down here." He pats Merry’s shoulder and leads the way down the narrow stairs, his staff providing us with enough light to see our feet. "If in doubt, Meriadoc, always follow your nose."

Pippin, beside me, grins at those words of wisdom; but I am too excited at that moment to pay attention. At last, we are on our way again! When we were moving, Moria did not seem so foul and dark—and to a soldier like myself, waiting idly is not an easy or pleasant thing to do. I am still unsure of Gandalf’s skill as a guide, but I am heartily thankful to be doing something at last.

The stairway is narrow, and the steps worn and broken, as we carefully feel our way down. They curve briefly, and then by the small glow of Gandalf’s staff, we can see the opening at the end. As we come down towards it, I can actually feel the air grow clearer, and cooler; whereas before it had been heavy and hard to breathe.

At last we all pass through the stairway opening, and find ourselves in what seems to be a very large, open place, although it is too dark to see. This is soon remedied, thankfully, as Gandalf does something with his staff—I cannot see what—and slowly its faint white light grows, until we can see most of the enormous place. The ceiling, not visible even with the newly augmented light, soars up hundreds, perhaps thousands of feet above us, and the giant stone pillars that hold it up must be as wide as five or six men, at least.

"Behold, the great realm and city of the Dwarrowdelf." Gandalf’s words echo through the hall, filling the cavernous space.

All of us are breathless with awe—this hall is, somehow in its own way, as great as my own White City; equal, if not in beauty, in grandeur and strength. Behind me, the only hobbit able to put his wonder into words, I hear Sam murmur, "Well, that’s an eye-opener, and no mistake!" Strangely those simple words seem perfectly fitting, and no one adds to them.

We walk slowly, and softly, staring about us at the glory of the vast hall. Suddenly Gimli breaks the silence with a short cry, and ignoring Gandalf’s call of "Gimli!", he sets off at a run towards a chamber that I had not observed, it being off to the side and partially shadowed until Gandalf turned towards it with his staff.

Having no choice, we follow after Gimli, and find him kneeling in front of a great stone table, weeping and muttering—perhaps laments, or prayers—in Dwarvish. Frodo, pausing beside me in the entrance to take in the sight, his blue eyes sorrowful, sucks in his breath and murmurs, "It looks like a tomb." Then he moves to stand beside Gandalf, who is reading the runes graven into the great white slab of stone above the table.

"Here lies Balin, son of Fundin." The wizard speaks with regret evident in his voice. "‘Lord of Moria.’" I come to stand beside Gimli, who is silent now, his head bowed. "He is dead then," Gandalf sighs. "I feared it was so." Frodo lowers his eyes, his sadness making me wonder if perhaps he knew Balin himself. Gimli raises his head a little, and I can feel his shoulders shake as I squeeze one of them supportively.

A silence descends on the Company, and we stand motionless by the tomb, some with heads bowed. Gimli again begins quietly mumbling in Dwarvish and I keep my hand on his shoulder. The only noise is the soft crackling of the flames in the torch Aragorn carries.

At last, we stir and, evidently of one mind, begin to look around for anything that could show us what had become of the Dwarven colony of Moria. After a few minutes of searching, Gandalf finds a large, ancient book, which he dusts off and opens. We gather round the tomb to listen, and I can see the jagged slashes and dried bloodstains that mar the cover and pages. Gandalf opens the book somewhere in the middle, causing a shower of rocks and dirt to fall out of it, and flips a few pages, reading silently for a few minutes, Frodo and Gimli at his side examining the pages with him.

At last, Gandalf stops at one page and looks up. "It seems to be a record of the fortunes of Balin’s folk. I guess that it began with their coming to Dimrill Dale nigh on thirty years ago: the pages seem to have numbers referring to the years of their arrival." He was silent for another minute or two, flipping through another few pages. "Here is the last page of all," he says at last, slowly. "It is grim reading. I fear their end was cruel. Listen! We cannot get out. They have taken the Bridge and second hall. We cannot get out. Frár and Lóni and Náli fell there. The Watcher in the Water took Óin." I see Frodo shudder."We cannot get out. The end comes… drums, drums in the deep." Gandalf pauses and looks up at us. "They are coming."

Another silence came over us, but this one of dread. What did it mean, drums in the deep? And what of, they are coming? I do not wish to dwell too long on that. In whatever way they met their end, it would appear that the Balin’s colony met it valiantly, judging by the amount of orc corpses littered around the bodies of Dwarves, with axes and even arrows buried in them.

Suddenly a large crash startles us all, and we whirl to see Pippin jumping back from the well in the back corner of the chamber, where a Dwarven skeleton is sliding down, and attached to it a long chain. The noise is deafening; I can hear it echoing through the great hall as I back towards the door.

After what seems an eternity, the din fades away, and we all hold our breaths. When nothing happens, all eyes turn to Pippin, and Gandalf slams the book shut. "Fool of a Took!" he reprimands, angrier than I have ever seen him, as he advances on the poor hobbit, who is hanging his head. "This is not a hobbit walking-party! Throw yourself in next time and rid us of your stupidity."

Though he was wrong to touch the skeleton at all, my heart goes out to Pippin, who flinches at each of Gandalf’s scathing words. It was but a youthful impetuosity that led him to make the mistake, I am sure; but I must acknowledge that such a blunder on the Quest could endanger all of our lives, so I cannot go to comfort him. Not yet.

Doom. Doom.

The sudden, deep booming of drums sends shivers up my spine. They are far away, and beneath us perhaps, I think; the ground trembles with each rumble. Gandalf looks at Pippin furiously, and the young hobbit turns white, turning to look with dread at the well from which the sound fills the room.

Doom. Doom.

Now we can hear the coarse shrieks of the goblins as they approach. "Orcs!" mutters Legolas. I run over to the door to see out of it, and no sooner do I turn my head to the side then I can hear the whizzing of arrows and see them speeding toward me. I draw back, and they bury themselves in the wood of the door just inches from my face. A great roar reaches my ears, and I glance again before turning and, with Aragorn beside me, pull the doors shut.

"They have a cave troll!" I exclaim, more frustrated than fearful at the moment—without such a great brute, we might have stood a chance of routing the small goblin-orcs.

"Get back!" Aragorn orders the hobbits. "Stay close to Gandalf!"

The hobbits form their tightknit cluster, drawing their small swords, and Gandalf steps slightly in front of them, drawing his own long, thin blade, which glows brightly silver. Frodo’s sword, Sting, also glows, with an eerie blue light.

Aragorn, Legolas and I work to bar the doors. "They are coming," murmurs Legolas as he tosses me long axes, and I pass them to Aragorn.

"We cannot get out," finishes Gimli grimly. Then suddenly he springs to life, and jumps on top of the tomb to make his stand there, two small axes in his hands. "Let them come!" he bellows. "There is one dwarf yet in Moria who still draws breath!"

Doom. Doom.

The orcs are now surging toward the doors. Aragorn and Legolas, arrows fitted to their bowstrings, move back to stand in front of the tomb, while I, sword and shield at the ready, remain by the door. The doors shake at the pounding they are receiving. They cannot last long, and then we must prepare to sell our lives dearly, and hope that somehow we can hold firm.

Doom—doom—doom—doom.

They are coming.

To be continued... 

The Folly of the Wise ~ Part Eight

Doom—Doom—Doom—Doom!

The sounds of the drum pounded in my ears in time with my heartbeat as the orcs began to break down the door. Their screeches and howls echoed through the chamber, seeming to bounce off the walls and multiply until it sounded as though all of Moria were filled with the creatures.

And who was to say that it was not so?

Among the Fellowship, there was a grim, deathly stillness; we all had our arms ready, and we stood tense and waiting. This was always the most difficult part of a battle: the waiting. Never have I shown my fear in battle, nor did I now, but if I looked composed outwardly, inwardly my thoughts were whirling. Long ago I had reconciled myself to the fact that one day, most likely in battle, I would die, and that did not trouble me. But always during those terrible, long moments before the battle, as you watch your enemy near, I felt a kind of chill—not of fear, but… a sort of uneasiness, I suppose—no soldier is comfortable during these dreadful moments.

The first orc hacked an opening through the door; Legolas’ eyes narrowed briefly as he aimed and then an arrow had driven the orc, shrieking in pain, back. But it was quickly replaced by another, and another gash appeared in the door. Aragorn and I glanced at one another briefly, and for a moment I felt no resentment or irritation towards him; we acknowledged each other as brother soldiers about to enter a battle.

Another orc chopped through the door, pulling off a bigger piece this time, and then fell back with one of Aragorn’s arrows embedded in its eye. On Aragorn’s opposite side, I heard Legolas’ bow twanging as he fired arrow after arrow at any target that showed itself. I wished I had the same skill with a bow my brother had; I had never enjoyed training with the bow, for I had not thought it as noble a weapon as the sword.

How wrong I was proven then!

Another screech told me that another of Aragorn’s arrows had hit its mark. The door was beginning to come apart now; it would not be long before the entire mass of them came flooding inside on us. Aragorn abandoned his bow, slinging it across his back, and unsheathed his sword with a metallic ring that seemed somehow to lighten our tension, a little.

Legolas’ arrows continued to zip past us, each one reaching its mark by the sound of it. But I could not look. I tightened my grip on my sword hilt, feeling a cold sweat pouring down my face and beneath my tunic, sending an involuntary shiver up my spine. My heart thudded in my ears, almost drowning out the orcs, but I was not afraid. The familiar, clear-headed but thoughtless battle instincts had taken effect, and everything seemed to slow as my fight at last commenced.

The door burst at last, and the orcs poured in.

As happens in battle, what came after was a blur, of which I remember little. Several things, however, stand out very clearly in my memory.

As the orcs flooded in—only the narrow width of the doorway kept them from completely overwhelming us, I think—I looked around for the cave troll but saw nothing of him. Concluding, hopefully, that he had withdrawn from the fight, I concentrated on parrying and dodging blows, and returning my own. I heard Gandalf join in the battle, and the hobbits come after him, and though I was unable to turn around and watch for them, I whispered a brief prayer for their safety to whatever Powers would listen.

It was shortly after the hobbits joined the battle that my first clear memory took place. Aragorn had drifted far apart from me during the fighting, and was now somewhere on the opposite side of the tomb, where I could no longer see him. But as I whirled around to dodge a blow from behind I caught sight of him briefly, just in time to see two orcs closing in on him at once and somehow dragging him down. I tried to fight my way over to his aid, but there were far too many orcs to make any headway.

Suddenly through the din of battle I heard Frodo cry out, "Aragorn!" and glimpsed his dark head ducking under the wild swing of an orcish scimitar, saw a flash of his glowing blue blade, the orc doubling over and disappearing, and then Frodo was out of sight, too.

Furiously I redoubled my efforts to reach the other side, and glanced as often as I could in the direction I had last seen Aragorn, where Frodo was headed.

It was probably only a minute or two later—though it seemed an eternity to me—when I heard Aragorn’s voice, cheerful as it rose above the noise, shouting, "One for the Shire! Your blade bites deep, Frodo!" Then I saw him spring up, mostly uninjured, it seemed, although there was a bit of blood on his face; Frodo was beside him a second later, the point of his sword black with orc blood.

Then the battle swept me away again, and once more all passed in a vague blur of action until a new threat joined the battle—the cave troll. Evidently it had not retreated as I had hoped; it smashed through the doorway, bellowing, a chain around its neck held by two orcs, a giant stone club in one claw-like hand. For a moment the battle paused, as we all turned to stare at this enormous new foe, but the orcs—who had been falling back slightly—rallied at the sight of the creature and I could not spare further thought for the creature.

Until a moment later.

I heard but did not see Legolas’ arrow embed itself in the troll’s chest, and its howl of rage and pain shook the walls. Then, all at once the beast was before me, swinging its giant stone club—which I noticed then was nearly twice my height, almost as thick as the pillars out in the Great Hall, and that if the weight of the stone did not crush you, the rocky spikes that adorned it would be certain to. I also noticed, then, that Sam was beside me, his small sword splashed with dark orc-blood as he fought and brought down an orc twice his size with all the courage of a seasoned warrior.

A small, wiry orc engaged me then, dodging more quickly than most of the others; for there was suddenly more room closeby me as everyone—friends and foes alike—had scattered and backed away from the cave troll. I heard Aragorn call out in warning and was able to glance sideways in time to see the cave troll’s great club being raised—directly over Sam. With a wordless cry of anger and determination I redoubled my efforts against the agile little goblin, which seemed to be grinning at me, if those vile creatures were capable of such a gesture. Helplessly I could only keep glancing at Sam, hoping that Aragorn—fighting nearby—would be able to intervene.

The troll’s club came whistling down, and with a shout of fear, Sam dove under the troll and crawled between its legs to emerge behind it in one piece. With a bellow, the cave troll turned toward the hobbit, who was trying to crawl a safe distance away. The stone club was raised again as Sam helplessly backed against the wall.

At last I was able to cut down my orc, and Aragorn and I reached the troll’s chain at the same time, quickly dispatching the two orcs holding it. Just as it began to bring down the club, the Ranger and I pulled back on the rough iron chain with all our strength, and succeeded in jerking it back a step or two.

Enraged, it roared and turned to face us. It swung the club wildly and we ducked. I could feel it whistle overhead, so close that it stirred my hair. Then it tore the chain free of our hands and swung it.

Before I could react the chain was wrapped tightly around my arm and I was hurled into the air like a rag doll, flung across the chamber and into the wall. I bounced off, rolled over several orcs before falling heavily to the stone floor. I was not knocked completely unconscious, but I was dazed enough to be unable to move, and a white-hot pain was shooting up my left shoulder. My sword had flown from my fingers when I hit the wall, and for a moment I was unable to rise.

Fortunately, the cave troll appeared to have had enough of me—it sounded as though it was now after Gimli—but blinking, trying to focus my eyes as I started to pull myself up, I saw an orc jump down from the ledge above me, a sharp, curved cutlass in its clawed fist.

I felt blood in my mouth and smeared across my face as I tried to rise or move quick enough to avoid the blow that came arching down at my head. I knew even as I tried that it was useless, but I would not die without trying to defend myself. I saw the cutlass come flashing down toward me, and did not flinch as I waited for the blow to hit.

It did not. A silver dagger suddenly whistled through the air and buried itself in the orc’s neck. Still dazed, I shook my head as I managed to get unsteadily to my feet, and looked up to see who my deliverer was.

Aragorn.

The Ranger stood still for a moment, and our eyes met. In his face was genuine concern—and for a moment I was too startled to respond. Then I gave a short nod, acknowledging his deed and thanking him, warrior-fashion. Relief replaced the concern in his eyes, and he returned the gesture before returning to the fight.

After leaning against the wall for a moment while I steadied myself, I saw the glimmer of my sword nearby and retrieved it. I hesitated a moment longer before rejoining the melee; my entire left side, now, ached fiercely, and I suspected that my shoulder had been, at best, bruised badly—at worst, I feared that it had been dislocated entirely. But I took a deep breath, and forcing my pain aside I gave a wordless shout and leapt back into the battle.

Again, the battle became a hazy blur, the agony in my shoulder adding to my feeling of lightheadedness. Each time I raised my shield to block a blow, a breath-taking wave of pain would fly up my left side. The orcs seemed to sense this weakness and my shield was getting battered as it never had before.

Behind me, I could hear the cave troll bellowing as it focussed on some new target; then I heard a derisive Elven shout and knew it to be Legolas the beast was after—although from the tone of Legolas’ voice, it seemed that our Elf Prince was getting the better of it.

My next clear memory began with another sharp stab of pain in my shoulder as the orc I was engaged with gave me a shove into the back on another orc. I nearly stumbled, but regained my balance and ran the orc through just as it raised its own blade. The orc I had been pushed into spun around and attacked me not a second after I defeated the first, and I barely had time to raise my sword and parry the swinging blow aimed at me.

This orc was heavily armored and each blow I gave seemed to glance off harmlessly, only denting the metal plates slightly. The orc began to press me backwards, towards the wall, and though I fought desperately for every inch I gave, I was unable to stop the orc from steadily forcing me backwards.

Suddenly the orc, parrying one of my blows, twisted its scimitar around and used the hilt to send me crashing into the wall. The agony in my shoulder was so great that for a moment it seemed as though stars were exploding before my eyes. As I bounced off, lost my balance and fell heavily, I felt my shoulder give a sickening twist—but abruptly the painful pressure that had been mounting on the injury was lifted, and I could not help but wince as I realized that my worst fear had been correct; I had dislocated my shoulder, but this second fall seemed to have moved it back into place.

My shoulder still hurt immensely, but it was more bearable now, and I scrambled to my feet with renewed confidence. Sparks flew as the orc’s blade and mine met. I was beginning to force the orc back, and it knew that its advantage had been lost, putting more strength into its blows than ever.

But it could see and hear as well as I that the battle was turning. The orcs were beginning to fall back, scattering and screeching in fear, and the cave troll’s bellows were more pained than angry now.

"Frodo!"

The cry chilled me for a second, then with one final thrust I dispatched my orc and looked wildly around for the Ringbearer. As before, everything seemed to slow, but this time the chill in my heart was not one of exhilaration and excitement; it was one of dread.

In a corner at the back of the chamber, I saw Aragorn lying apparently unconscious on some rocks beneath a ledge, and Frodo was beside him, sword in hand, trying to shake him awake. The cave troll had abandoned Legolas for the Ringbearer and injured Ranger, and was wrenching a spear out of its side and heading toward the two. I watched helplessly as Frodo ducked a blow of the spear that buried itself in the stone pillar barely above his head, and then whirled around, perhaps to distract the troll from Aragorn. The Ringbearer tried to dodge around the beast, but it swung the spear in front of him, blocking his way and throwing him into the corner. I found I was holding my breath as Frodo attempted again to rise and get away. The cave troll again swung the spear into the wall in front of him and flung him roughly into the stone corner, knocking the breath from him.

The troll freed the spear and drew it slowly back, delighting in the moment, and then it stabbed. Time seemed to stop as the spear hit home—straight into Frodo’s left side. I heard Sam’s agonized cry, saw Gandalf sway slightly where he stood, while I felt rooted to the floor in shock.

Frodo—the Ringbearer—dead!

I could not tear my eyes away as I saw Frodo draw in his breath in a ragged, choked gasp, sway, and then collapse onto the stone floor with the spear underneath him. Then I saw Merry and Pippin look at each other, their small faces twisted in horror, and together give a loud cry of grief and anger as they leapt onto the cave troll’s back, their swords flashing furiously as they stabbed into the creature’s thick skin again and again.

That seemed to be what spurred us all back into action, and I shook myself and echoed the battle shout given by the others as I rejoined the fight, grief redoubling my determination and adding renewed vigor to my blows.

The rest of the battle lasted only a few moments. The remaining orcs began to give way and finally retreated altogether, screeching with fear and anger. Then we turned our attention to the cave troll. Merry and Pippin miraculously still clung onto the beast’s back, and continued to drive their swords into its skin with all their strength. Legolas now sent one of his arrows into the troll’s arm to catch its attention, and with a bellow, it turned toward us.

Merry gave it an especially deep thrust in the back with his blade, and screeching, the cave troll reached behind and grabbed the hobbit by one leg, pulling him off his back. Merry gave a shout of terror and tried to reach the troll’s hand with his sword as he was whirled about.

After swinging him about a bit, the cave troll dropped him almost carelessly to floor, where he landed on his back and did not move. My heart gave a painful lurch; this battle was taking a heavy toll on the Shire-folk!

Legolas had been firing arrows repeatedly, trying to pierce the troll’s thick skin, but it was Pippin who provided Legolas with the opening he needed. With a fierce cry, the young hobbit buried his sword deep into the back of the troll’s neck. The beast threw up its head and gave almost a human scream of pain, and Legolas was able to send an arrow into the roof of its mouth.

The cave troll began to sway, dazedly putting one clawed hand to its mouth as if to pull out the arrow, then with a groan that was somehow almost pitiable, it fell forward onto the ground. Pippin was thrown off and landed beside Merry, but a moment later he sat up shaking his head and knew that he had only been stunned.

Everyone stood still for a moment, trying to get their breath back. I felt somehow numb; even my shoulder did not pain me then. Then everyone moved to the corner where Frodo was, slowly and fearfully. I glanced at Pippin and saw him supporting Merry, and I felt a swift burst of relief that was quickly stifled by my grief as I followed the others toward Aragorn and Frodo.

Just as we arrived, Aragorn was rolling over and sitting up, looking a little dizzy for a moment; then his eyes fell on Frodo and his face blanched. I stayed slightly behind the others, afraid, somehow, to watch; an image came to my mind, of Frodo smiling at me as he promised to keep my secret the night I had fallen asleep on watch. I could almost hear his voice, and my heart quivered as I thought of our journey without his quiet courage and determination, his ever-present hope and unfailing endurance. What would our Fellowship be without the valiant person who had brought us together in the first place?

I heard Aragorn’s whispered, "Oh no," and forced myself to step forward and look. I caught a glimpse of poor Sam’s agonized face and my heart quivered again.

Aragorn gently rolled Frodo over—and the hobbit drew in a gasping breath and began coughing, one hand pressed to his side; bruised, perhaps, but alive! Sam pushed forward, his brown eyes wide and shining with tears, and rushed to his master’s side. He helped Aragorn support Frodo in a sitting position, tearing his eyes and attention away only long enough to glance at Gandalf and announce through joyful tears, "He’s alive!"

I let out the breath I had been holding in a long, relieved sigh, which I heard echoed by everyone else. Pippin, beside me, gave a small breathless cheer, and I could not help a broad smile from spreading over my own face.

Aragorn still looked shocked and he exclaimed, "You should be dead! That spear would’ve skewered a wild boar!"

Frodo was still trying to regain his breath, supported by Sam and Aragorn’s arms as he coughed, and could not answer. So Gandalf, chuckling, did so for him: "I think there’s more to this hobbit than meets the eye!" he said cryptically.

Frodo looked up at him, his expression unreadable, and unbuttoned his shirt partway to display something that shimmered brightly. I could not see at first what it was, but then Pippin exclaimed, "Bilbo’s mithril-coat!"

I looked more closely at the silver corslet the worth of which was, according to Gandalf, "greater than the value of the Shire." Truly it was a magnificent garment, and, I freely admit, finer than any chain mail I have seen, even in Gondor.

Frodo was still speechless, and from the way he kept one hand pressed against his side I guessed that his ribs had been badly bruised, perhaps one or two broken—but a small price to pay for remaining alive, I am sure! Sam, with one arm still helping support his master, was stroking the mithril-rings wonderingly with his fingers, looking dazed. Merry stepped forward, grinning, and exclaimed, "Dear old Bilbo. Bless him! I love him more than ever—I hope we get a chance to tell him all this!"

Gimli had drawn in his breath sharply when the mithril-coat was revealed and now he rumbled, "You are full of surprises, Master Baggins."

Gandalf looked like he was about to say something, but suddenly the sound of distant screeching caught our ears. The orcs were returning! Gandalf sighed with something like irritation. "To the Bridge of Khazad-Dûm," he commanded. Sam and Aragorn quickly helped Frodo to his feet and the other hobbits clustered around him in case they were needed for support.

Then we raced out of the chamber and into the Great Hall, while the shrieks and howls behind us grew nearer. Glancing back, I saw with a quick shiver that the orcs seemed to be coming in from all around us—through cracks in the floor, holes in the great stone roof where they streamed like ants down the pillars. Soon they had completely surrounded us, bringing us to a halt. We faced them, back to back with each other, and I saw that there must have been thousands of orcs, at least, gathered round us.

The odds were entirely against us, and I myself held no hope of winning—but if I must fall, I would fall fighting! The orcs crowded around us, hissing and grinning—I was sure of it this time; those creatures were capable of grinning. They poked spears and scimitars at us, but only as though teasing us. None of them attacked, evidently enjoying drawing out their moment before falling on us.

Suddenly, from far down the Hall in the direction I was facing came a flash of red-gold light like a flame, and simultaneously a deep but distant growl shook the ground. The orcs looked at each other and screeched in consternation, and then to my astonishment they began to climb back up the pillars in retreat! Gimli, behind me, was laughing triumphantly, raising his axe at the fleeing orcs’ backs, while I kept my sword ready but relaxed slightly.

The orcs were gone in a few seconds and I turned my attention to the fiery glow that still lit the pillars at the far side of the Hall, and the growls that continued to rumble through the caverns. Gandalf beside me had gone deathly still, and keeping my eyes on the strange light, I asked him quietly, "What is this new devilry?" Anything that frightened away an orc must be a hundred times more fierce and deadly.

I glanced briefly back at Aragorn, and was astonished to see him looking from Gandalf to the light with eyes wide and his expression almost—afraid? That worried me more than I cared to show, and I hastily tightened the grip on my sword hilt to hide my trembling hands. Gandalf had his head bowed, and I did not think he would answer me at first. But after a long moment, he did, his voice slow and heavy. "A Balrog. A demon of the ancient world." I heard Legolas draw in his breath sharply and glancing at him, I saw him for the first time shaken out of his usual calm serenity. His eyes were wide and fixed on the distant glow, and his expression was tight with what could only have been dread as he slowly lowered his bow.

I swallowed convulsively and saw that although I gripped my sword so tightly that my hands ached, they shook still, now so hard that the blade wobbled. I lowered it.

"This foe is beyond any of you," said Gandalf grimly, as though pronouncing a sentence. Suddenly his head came up and he shouted, "Run!"

None of us argued, but followed him racing through the Hall and through a narrow doorway. We passed into a short tunnel, and I ran on ahead to make sure we were not ambushed by orcs. Coming out of the tunnel I found a flight of uneven stone steps and started down them—but quickly I came to a halt when I discovered that they were broken over a great, fiery chasm! With an involuntary shout of surprise, I tried to regain my balance, swaying alarmingly over the edge.

It was Legolas who saved me—with his typical Elven grace he rushed down the steps and wrapped his arms around my chest, pulling me back. But this action caused both of us—and I emphasize both—to over-balance and we fell back against the steps, me on top of him. Were the situation not so dire, I would probably have been heartily amused at seeing the Elf lose his equilibrium, even if it was in the act of rescuing me…

As it was, my fall reminded me rather forcefully of my injured shoulder and I could not suppress a groan as I got to my feet and offered Legolas my hand. He glanced at me briefly, his blue eyes unreadable, and then accepted my aid in getting up. Everyone was gathered outside the cave’s mouth now, staring wide-eyed at the seemingly endless chasm below the broken staircase.

I looked at Gandalf, who seemed to deliberate a moment, then come to a decision. "Lead them on, Aragorn," he commanded, gripping the Ranger’s shoulder. "The Bridge is near." Aragorn looked at him with an expression that I could not make out, and moved forward as if to refuse. Gandalf gave him a hard shove toward the narrow path that ran along a ledge beside the staircase. "Do as I say!" he said forcefully, shocking me as well as Aragorn, who looked at him in confusion a moment before obeying. "Swords are no more use here," the wizard finished, pushing the hobbits ahead of him as we fell in line behind Aragorn. He followed up at the rear.

We ran along the thin path as quickly as we dared. The ledge wound along the stone walls before stopping at a long, stone staircase that lead to the Bridge some distance below us.

Quickly we followed Aragorn down the narrow, uneven staircase until we reached a place where the stairs had broken. There was a large gap in the middle of the staircase. The Balrog’s growls had increased to a muffled roar from behind the stone walls, and as another one shook the stairs it also began to dislodge parts of the ceiling, which came crashing down behind us.

To make matters worse—although at the time I could not imagine that that was possible!—the orcs had returned. They stayed a safe distance away, up on higher ledges where they could shoot without being in danger of being shot—or so they thought; they had not reckoned on the skill of our Elven archer. Legolas glanced at them as an arrow struck the step directly beneath his feet, muttering something that sounded like a curse in his own tongue, and then he came to the front of the Company along with Gandalf.

The Elf Prince surveyed the gap for a moment before jumping nimbly over it and landing safely on the other side. Gandalf hesitated, and as he did so another roar dislodged more chunks of the stone ceiling behind us. "Gandalf!" Legolas called urgently.

Gandalf leapt across the gap and was caught by Legolas. Arrows thudded against the step where the wizard had stood a moment before, and in one fluid motion Legolas pulled the bow off his back, notched an arrow to the string, and let it fly. I heard a telltale shriek that assured me that his aim had been true.

Arrows continued to zip around us. My heart leapt into my throat as one passed so close over Pippin’s head that it took a lock of hair out. The next second another one thudded into the shield I raised only just in time. "You go next," Aragorn murmured to me, touching my shoulder. "And take two of the hobbits with you."

I glanced down and found Merry and Pippin to be nearest, and held out my arms. "Come!" I shouted, and as they stepped forward I took one under each arm and jumped over the gap, holding my breath. Legolas and Gandalf reached out to steady our landing and I let out my breath in a sigh of relief—we had made it alive! I made sure Merry and Pippin were unharmed before turning back to watch the others cross.

Aragorn turned around, lifted the nearest hobbit—Sam—and tossed him across the gap where he was caught in Legolas’ arms and set safely down beside the other two. Aragorn moved to take Gimli but the dwarf held up a hand. "Nobody tosses a dwarf!" he declared, and tried to leap the gap himself. He landed on the very edge of the stairs, and started to tip backwards but Legolas reached forward and grasped him by the beard. "Not the beard!" the dwarf bellowed, but Legolas ignored him and pulled him up.

The only ones left were Aragorn and… Frodo. How have we left the Ringbearer behind? I thought furiously. He came to stand beside Aragorn and I realized then that he had been purposely staying back, making sure that the other hobbits were safely across first, and in our haste to cross we had not had time to pay attention to which hobbit we sent or brought with us.

Just as Aragorn and Frodo were about to make the jump together, another roar from the Balrog sent more giant pieces of stone hurtling down on us—and this time they fell not behind us, but between us, smashing part of the staircase where Aragorn and Frodo stood. Aragorn pushed Frodo safely up the stairs before jumping up himself, barely pulling himself to safety as part of the staircase collapsed. When they get unsteadily to their feet I could see that they were unharmed—but stranded, for the falling stones had widened the gap greatly.

We could do nothing but stand by helplessly and watch! Aragorn turned to Frodo and seemed to ask or suggest something, though I could not hear the words for the rumbling of the Balrog. Frodo appeared to refuse something, shaking his head violently. Aragorn grew more desperate and put his hands on both of Frodo’s shoulders, but his words were interrupted by another dislodged stone crashing down. It smashed through the staircase behind them, this time, and to my horror I discovered that it had left them stranded on a small part of the staircase, cut off from both sides.

I could now see flames beginning to flicker behind them, and the entire cavern seemed to shake with the Balrog’s heavy footsteps. But my eyes were on the two stranded. Their small stone island began to crack at the base, and I could only watch helplessly as it rocked dangerously back and forth. Aragorn and Frodo almost lost their balance, but at the last second Aragorn regained his footing and steadied Frodo’s arm.

The Balrog’s roars did not sound so muffled now, and stones continued to fall from the ceiling, fortunately none hitting the small part where Aragorn and Frodo stood. Their staircase island started to tip sideways. Aragorn pulled Frodo close against him and I could catch his words. "Lean backward!"

Frodo obeyed, and the staircase shifted and began to slide backward. Once it had straightened, Aragorn shouted, "Lean forward!" and miraculously the staircase began to tip forward as they did so. The two leaned forward as far as they dared, and Aragorn helped them both keep their balance as the staircase slid steadily toward us.

"Come on!" Legolas encouraged, and I came up beside him to help him catch the two. Only a moment longer and then their staircase hit ours and they were thrown off. Legolas grabbed Aragorn and I caught Frodo, who gasped, "Thank you!" I pressed him close for a moment, making sure he was unharmed, and then let him down to rejoin the other hobbits who were pushing forward to see for themselves that he was still in one piece after such a near-death experience.

Once we are all gathered Gandalf wastes no time but urges us on, resuming command, and Aragorn once more joins me following up the rear. We fairly fly down the remaining stone steps and at last reach the Bridge, which is so narrow we must cross one at a time. With the Balrog behind us we dare not slacken our pace and run full speed, one by one, over the Bridge to gather at the other side.

We reach a doorway built into the wall that leads to another flight of stairs—and there is light at the top to prove that we have at last reached the far side of Moria! But Gandalf does not follow us and we all pause in the doorway and turn around to see him stepping out onto the Bridge—just as the Balrog finally steps into view.

The Balrog seems to be made of flame and shadow; its body is roughly man-shaped and black, but lit with fire both inside and out. In one hand is a fiery sword, and in the other a whip also made of fire, it seems. Two wing-like arks of fire seem to protrude from its back and fill the cavern behind it. It steps out towards the Bridge, and seeing Gandalf, it opens its mouth and roars, and flame shoots out of its mouth.

We are all motionless, as though rooted to the floor with shock as Gandalf and the Balrog approach each other on the Bridge. Behind me, Frodo gasps and cries, "Gandalf!"

If Gandalf hears him, he gives no sign. Suddenly the light from his staff intensifies so that it seems to form a shining white dome around him, and his sword glimmers. "You cannot pass!" he shouts, and even his voice seems to have changed—louder, echoing, and commanding.

The Balrog takes another step onto the Bridge. "I am a servant of the Secret Fire, wielder of the flame of Anor! Dark fire will not avail you, flame of Udûn!" The Balrog’s fiery sword comes down with a crack as it meets the dome of light surrounding Gandalf. "Go back to the Shadow," the wizard commands, his voice ringing.

The Balrog cracks its whip and tries again to pierce the white dome.

"YOU SHALL NOT PASS!" Gandalf’s voice fills the cavern like thunder as he brings his staff down on the stone bridge.

Nothing happens at first, but suddenly the Bridge begins to break, as glowing white cracks appear on it. The Balrog roars furiously and steps closer, and its weight causes the entire Bridge to collapse, bringing the Balrog down with it!

Gandalf is still for a moment as the bright glow fades from around him, and turns back towards us. He has won!

But suddenly the Balrog’s whip comes up and wraps around Gandalf’s ankle, pulling him down onto the Bridge until he only hangs on by his fingertips. Frodo rushes forward but I catch him and hold him tight as he struggles to get to Gandalf’s aid, desperately crying the wizard’s name. I know there is nothing we can do—we could not hope to pull Gandalf back and if we tried, we too would be lost—but it tortures me to stand by and watch!

Gandalf hangs on for only a moment more to give us one last command. "Fly, you fools!"

And then he is gone.

To be continued...

The Folly of the Wise ~ Part Nine

"No-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o!"

Frodo’s agonized cry was like a knife in my heart as I forced myself out of my numbed shock and picked him up to follow the rest of the Fellowship out of Moria. He no longer struggled, but even as I turned to run up the stairs he kept his eyes fixed on the broken Bridge and cried out one last time, "No! Gandalf!" I shuddered and pressed him closer to me, seeing Legolas picking up the stunned Merry and Pippin, and Gimli putting one burly arm around Sam’s shoulders and leading him out.

I turned as arrows thudded around me, harmless now, it seemed, and saw that Aragorn still stood there, sword limp in one hand, as though unable to move. "Aragorn!" I shouted at him desperately. The others were already outside.

Aragorn’s shoulders quivered and then he turned, his eyes wide, and followed me wordlessly up the stairs. Frodo had gone deathly still and quiet now, but I could feel his heart racing and his breath coming in swift, shallow gasps. He seemed to be going into a kind of shock and I tightened my arms around him. I bent my head close. "Hold on, Frodo," I whispered into his hair. He began to tremble but otherwise did not respond.

The sunlight outside was blinding after the deep darkness of Khazad-Dûm and I stood still for a moment adjusting. Aragorn slipped noiselessly passed me and walked a small distance away, where he stood silently staring out across the Dimrill Dale and the lands beyond.

Still somehow unable to move, I surveyed the other members of the Fellowship. Legolas stood nearby, a look of confusion and grief in his deep blue eyes that was painful to see. Merry and Pippin had collapsed onto the rocky ground, and Merry was supporting his younger cousin as Pippin sobbed. I tore my eyes quickly away from them, unable to watch. Sam sat closeby on a rock, his head in one hand, his shoulders shaking. Gimli stood beside him, one gloved hand resting on his shoulder, his own head bowed.

At last I came out of my daze and looked down at Frodo. His face was pressed against my tunic, but he raised it then, as though sensing my gaze. I was surprised to find that his eyes were dry, but filled with such deep sorrow and pain that I caught my breath. I tried to speak. "Frodo…" was all I could manage, in a hoarse whisper.

"Please put me down, Boromir," he said softly. "I’m all right."

Slowly and carefully, I did so, but I kept one hand on his shoulder as he swayed momentarily. He stiffened, and lowered his head for a moment, and the dark curls hid his face from my sight. Then he raised his head and with a fleeting, unreadable glance at me, he began to walk away, slowly but steadily.

I watched him for a moment, but did not follow. I knew he must be allowed to grieve alone as he wished. I looked down at the white rocks beneath my feet, feeling suddenly the full enormity of our loss. Gandalf. Mentor, teacher—to my brother, and to all of us in the Fellowship—leader, and even friend. I did not agree with him on many things, but I realized then that he had long ago earned my respect.

Alas, that I did not see this sooner!

My heart was heavy with grief as I made my way slowly forward, and then sank down on a large rock near Gimli and Sam. I found that there were tears in my eyes, and I grieved for Gandalf, for Moria that was lost to the dwarves for ever, for the innocent halflings doomed to follow such a hopeless path, for Frodo bound to a task that could only end with darkness and his own death, and for my own City, slowly crumbling and decaying. I wept, for the first time in many years, for them all.

I do not know how long I sat there, my head in my hands, before I finally seemed to awake once more to my surroundings. I raised my head and my tears dried. I felt spent, but somehow stronger, and taking a deep breath, I got to my feet and looked around. No one seemed to have moved, except Gimli.

The dwarf had left Sam to weep alone, and was standing closer to me, staring at the horizon. He heard me stand up and turned: I was surprised, for some reason, to see tears in his deep brown eyes. He was murmuring something in Dwarvish; a prayer, maybe. "I have seen the halls of Durin, and the city of Dwarrowdelf, and I know now they are lost forever," he said to me, his voice hoarse with sadness. Suddenly a spark of fire appeared in his eyes. "But the great halls should not be marred and stained by the foul orc-kind," he growled, tightening his grip on his axe. "There were archers closeby the door—"

Understanding what he was suggesting, I gasped, "No, Gimli! You saw that Moria is lost forever; it would be foolishness to return for revenge. The orc archers have no doubt been joined by many, now. Would you wish to meet the same fate as Balin and the rest of your kin?"

"Better to fall while avenging them than to turn away and do nothing!" he retorted, suddenly lunging forward.

I caught him, and kneeling down closer to his height, I held him back as he struggled to get away. "Let me go!" he shouted with grief-driven fury. "I must avenge my kin!"

I could think of nothing to say, so instead I only shook my head and continued to keep him there. I had done this many times before, in battle, when one of my soldiers tried to return and avenge a fallen friend.

Once, I had tried to do the same, only to be held back, as well. One of my dearest friends, a man named Eradan, whom I had known and trained with since boyhood, had fallen and we were being forced to retreat. Mad with grief and anger, I had tried to force my way back to him, but Faramir had stopped me, and held me in place while I struggled, his arms gentle but firm. As it had turned out, soon after we had routed the enemy and were able to come back and collect our dead and wounded; and I had found that Eradan was not, in fact, amongst the slain, but was only injured.

Still, had Faramir not held me back, I would have returned and certainly have been killed—and perhaps I would have caused the death of others, for Faramir and probably many of the soldiers would have followed me.

With that memory in my mind, I held Gimli until at last he ceased struggling. Then he sat on the rocky ground, dropping his axe and burying his face in his hands, and wept. I pressed his shoulder briefly before, seeing that he would not again try to run back into the Mines, rising and leaving him to grieve alone.

It was several minutes later when Aragorn, still standing motionless apart from the rest of the Company, suddenly turned, wiping the blood off his blade with a cloth and sheathing it. "I fear we cannot stay here," he announced, his voice clear. "It is a long road to Lórien. Come! Legolas, Boromir, get them up."

Legolas turned slowly, looking dazed, as he took Merry’s hand and halfheartedly gave it a tug or two. Merry was mastering his grief now, and he wiped one dirty sleeve across his equally dirty face but did not rise. "Come on, Pip," he said gently, squeezing the shaking shoulder of his still sobbing younger cousin.

I could not move—the hobbits had not had nearly enough time to grieve! And they were weary, sore, and bruised besides! How could Aragorn be so cold?

"Give them a moment, for pity’s sake!" I pleaded angrily.

"By nightfall these hills will be swarming with orcs!" Aragorn argued firmly, turning to face me. It was only then that I saw the tears shining in his grey eyes and understood that he did not like pulling the hobbits away so soon any more than I did. My anger abruptly died and I bowed my head in acknowledgment of the truth in his words. "We must reach the woods of Lothlórien." I raised my head to see him nod gravely at me, perhaps in response to my acceptance of his leadership. Then he raised his voice to the others once more. "Come, Legolas, Gimli! Get them up."

I aided Legolas in raising Merry and Pippin to their feet, and observing that the youngest hobbit seemed to have exhausted himself with grief and was swaying unsteadily where he stood, I offered to carry him.

Pippin was too weary to resist or do anything but nod, but Merry gave me a grateful look and took Pippin’s pack over his own shoulder. I slung my shield onto my back, bent down and carefully lifted him into my arms. I had forgotten, until that moment, about my bruised and still painful shoulder, and it made its presence known by nearly giving out entirely as I picked up Pippin. I almost dropped him, but fortunately Legolas reached out and steadied me.

The Elf’s eyes were dark still with sorrow, and now concern. "You are injured," he said softly. It was a statement, not a question.

I shook my head. "It is nothing," I lied. Seeing his growing argument I added, "It can wait until we have found someplace save to camp. There is no time for examining injuries here."

To my relief, Legolas nodded, and with a brief touch of my arm and then of Merry’s shoulder, he went to see to Sam, whom Aragorn had just raised to his feet. I shifted Pippin gently in my arms so that he rested close against my side, his small arms wrapped around my neck, just as I had carried Frodo from the Mines.

Frodo…

I looked around but did not see him; I realized that I had not seen him since setting him down earlier. Just as fear began to form in my heart I heard Aragorn’s shout, "Frodo!" and joining his side I spotted the small, slight figure far from the rest of the Company, turning slowly to face us.

"Come back, Frodo," said Aragorn, softening his voice.

Frodo looked at him for a long moment, too far away for me to read his expression. But as he obeyed reluctantly and neared, I could see that tears were sliding down his pale face, slowly, though he was silent. The tears made silver streaks in the dirt smeared across his cheeks and it seemed to me that his grief was deeper, somehow, and sharper than any of ours. Yet he bore it like a soldier, silently and bravely. My respect for him, already great, grew even further in that moment.

At last Frodo stood before Aragorn and I, his slender frame taut and very straight, but steady. I stepped back, respectfully, as Aragorn knelt before him and took Frodo’s small hands in his own. "We can linger here no longer," he said gently. "We must find a safe place to rest and recover before nightfall."

Frodo looked at him steadily for a long moment before nodding. "Very well," he said softly. His voice was as controlled as the rest of him, despite the tears.

Aragorn studied him closely for a moment, then smiled slightly, squeezed Frodo’s hands, and then rose to address the rest of the Fellowship now gathered round him. "Let us move," he said. "Lothlórien is a two days’ journey from here, if our luck holds, but our wounds must be attended to tonight. Come!"

***

We traveled slowly, at first, and then after entering the forest surrounding the Dimrill Dale we began to revive, and quickened our pace. It was later that afternoon, some three hours into our march, when we came upon two streams—one of which was the Silverlode coming down to merge with the Great River—which joined in a small waterfall that fell steeply into a dell surrounded by fir-trees, short and bent. Aragorn declared this a suitable place to rest while our hurts and weariness were tended to.

The hobbits were quick to busy themselves. Frodo helped Aragorn refill the water bottles and get out his medical supplies, while Sam, Merry and Pippin (who had slept for a few hours in my arms and had mostly recovered from his shock now) aided Gimli in gathering brush- and fire-wood to build up a small fire. Though we were only a few miles away from Moria and the danger of being followed was still near, the sun was already westering and a fire was necessary.

While Gimli drew and heated some water, Aragorn insisted that everyone be examined for wounds. The hobbits were to be treated first of all, while I sat down and tended to my battered sword and shield as an excuse to stay closeby, ready to offer assistance if needed. To my surprise, it was Sam the other three pushed forward to have examined first; apparently he had received a cut along his scalp while felling an orc with his small sword—so the frying pan had not been his only weapon!

Poor Sam’s face was bright red as the other hobbits hovered close around him with concern. Though he did not protest Aragorn’s examination, I saw him nervously stretch out one hand behind him, and when Frodo took it reassuringly in both of his, he pressed them so tightly that his master’s fingers turned white and I heard him give a very slight gasp of pain.

Running his fingers gently through Sam’s thick sandy curls, Aragorn’s face was grim as he examined the cut. It was not deep, but it looked ugly, and I was apprehensive until Aragorn smiled, releasing Sam’s head and resting a hand on the his small shoulder. "Good luck, Sam!" he said. "Many have received worse than this in the slaying of their first orc. The cut is not poisoned, as the wounds of orc-blades too often are. It should heal well."

I could not help but smile as Sam released a heartfelt sigh, echoed by the other hobbits. Aragorn patted him on the shoulder, and released him to put together a rather meager, but warm supper, with the promise to bathe his cut as soon as the other examinations were complete. Sam sighed mournfully at the prospect but was all too eager to be free, and soon he was humming softly to himself as he prepared the meal.

Merry and Pippin were next, and I paused in my sword-polishing to watch anxiously, concerned that they might have been injured. But apart from a few bruises, scrapes and scratches, Aragorn announced them as fit as ever. The irrepressible Pippin then declared that their "unfailing good health" was a matter for celebration and promptly dug through his pack to produce his small mahogany pipe and a pouch of pipeweed. This was met with indignant cries from Frodo, Sam and Merry, the latter rushing to get his own pipe and steal some of Pippin’s weed. Evidently the older hobbits had used up the last of theirs, and Pippin had somehow managed to keep his own stash hidden from his cousins and Sam.

A brief argument ensued between the hobbits, but within a few minutes Sam, Merry and Pippin were contentedly puffing their pipes as they busied themselves about the campfire. I saw Legolas smiling from across the campfire and even Aragorn’s grim face brightened a little; I myself was grinning and feeling, yet again, the now-usual mixture of admiration, fondness, and absolute bewilderment towards the hobbits.

Our moods sobered again as the examinations continued. Next to be tended to was Frodo, at his cousins’ insistence. He looked reluctant and protested a bit at first, but at last he sighed heavily and did not resist as Aragorn gently stripped off his cloak, jacket, waistcoat and shirt to see what the orc-spear had done to him. Aragorn paused upon reaching the mithril corslet, which shimmered silver in the fading sunlight. "If it were known that hobbits had such hides, all the hunters of Middle-earth would be riding to the Shire," he said, smiling, as he gently pulled it off. The mail rings clinked together like rain in a pool.

"And all the arrows of all the hunters in the world would be in vain," added Gimli, coming over to take the garment from Aragorn and hold it up reverently. "I have never seen or heard tell of a mithril-coat so fair. Gandalf undervalued it." He set the corslet carefully down and looked at Frodo with a smile. "It was well given!" he said, before returning to the campfire and bringing out his axe to sharpen it.

I was myself now sharpening one of the small knives that I carried always hidden in my boots; or I was pretending to, at least. I watched Aragorn and Frodo more than I worked on my knife.

Aragorn removed the last layer of Frodo’s upper clothing, a shirt of soft leather, and finally we were able to see the full extent of the wound. I caught my breath at the sight. Despite the protective chainmail, there was a dark and blackened bruise on Frodo’s right side and breast; it appeared very likely that one of his ribs, at the very least, was broken, though at least none had pierced the skin.

As Aragorn ran his hands gently up and down over Frodo’s ribs, I saw his face pale and he gasped in pain several times. With visible effort, he kept back a cry when Aragorn touched several spots in particular, and he pressed his eyes tightly shut.

Aragorn finished his examination, his face still grave, and announced that only one of Frodo’s ribs was cracked, and two broken, but the others were badly bruised and would be stiff and sore for some time. I could not help but wince. Small price to pay for remaining alive and in one piece, perhaps, but a very painful one!

Then Aragorn bathed Frodo’s wounds in the water that Gimli and the younger hobbits had heated, putting some sort of dried, herb into it. I am not sure what it was, but it had a strange effect on all of us; as soon as he’d crushed the withered leaves and dropped them into the water, their scent, both sweet and sharp, spread throughout the campsite. Somehow, as I breathed deeply of it, I suddenly felt refreshed and strengthened, and even some hope returned to my heart. I made a mental note to ask Aragorn more about that plant later—such an herb would be great help to the healers of Minas Tirith!

Frodo’s ribs were bound with soft pads of cloth and Aragorn forbade him from moving at all until he had eaten, with Merry to make sure he obeyed. Reluctantly, and not without protest, Frodo acquiesced. Merry, knowing his cousin well, sat watchfully close beside him and gave him a glower of warning, to which Frodo replied with an expressive grimace. I turned a chuckle into a cough at their wordless exchange.

Next Aragorn turned to Gimli but the dwarf gruffly asserted he was perfectly fine, and would only allow Aragorn a brief examination; at the end of which the Ranger could only concede that Gimli was correct and unharmed.

Aragorn looked at Legolas, and the elf shook his head. "I have no injuries that need tending now," he said softly. Aragorn’s dark brows lowered and he made to protest but Legolas gestured with a slender hand in the direction of Lothlórien and continued, "I will find all the healing I need there."

After a long moment, Aragorn capitulated and nodded. Legolas calmly resumed the repairs to his bowstring that he had been working on.

Then Aragorn turned to me, and we looked at each other in silence for a full minute. I slid the knife back into my boot and came over to sit nearby him. "You are injured," said Aragorn slowly. He studied me closely, and I shifted uncomfortably beneath the penetrating steel-grey gaze. "You have been favoring your left arm." It was not a question.

I nodded; there was no purpose in hiding or arguing with him. There was a brief silence, and then I explained, "My shoulder was dislocated when the cave troll threw me into the wall. But it went back into place later, thanks to one of the orcs." I saw the concern in Aragorn’s eyes and added, "It is no cause for alarm; it hurts little now, and I have received worse." While it was true that I had taken more grievous wounds before, I was not being entirely truthful when I told him that it did not hurt; in actual fact, it was still hurting quite a bit. But I would not have Aragorn know that.

Aragorn hesitated a moment, as if unsure how to proceed. Finally, he said, "Let me tend to it, Boromir. It will stiffen and get worse if I do not."

I, in turn, hesitated briefly. "I will let you tend to me only if you give me your word that you will allow your own wounds to be seen to—that gash on your arm looks deep," I said at last.

Aragorn looked at me for a long moment, then to my surprise, he smiled. "A deal, struck!" he said good-naturedly, and I could not help but smiling back at him.

My smile quickly faded as he began his examination. He ordered me to remove my fur-lined cloak, sleeveless leather coat, tunic, gauntlets, and even the short leather undertunic with its chainmail sleeves. I realized, clad with nothing but my trousers and boots, that it was getting chill outside, and forced myself not to shiver.

Aragorn’s face was grave as he examined my shoulder and arm, which I discovered to be vividly marked with bruises. His fingers were gentle, but even so it was all I could do not to wince and I am ashamed to say I very nearly cried out when he began pressing and rotating my shoulder. I managed to reduce it to a sharp hiss of indrawn breath, a cold sweat breaking out on my forehead.

At last, Aragorn sat back on his heels. "Your shoulder is sprained," he announced. "But not severely. A day or two in a sling should suffice; once we reach the woods of Lórien they will tend to all of our wounds."

As a soldier of Gondor, and a very stubborn man besides, I did not like the idea of having my arm confined to a sling, and told him so. He was unmoved. "No one will think the less of you for having been wounded in battle," he said. Then, a playful grin spreading over his face, he added, "However, if you behave yourself and do not strain your arm too much, I might be willing to allow you to remove the sling tomorrow evening, if I do not find it to have worsened."

"Agreed!" I said eagerly.

"Very well," said Aragorn. "But remember, you must bear the sling until then, and keep your arm as still as possible. Or you shall have to wear it longer."

I grinned back at him and gave him a small salute, sealing our bargain—although the thought of having my arm immobilized for the next day was not a pleasing one.

As Aragorn rummaged through his pack for material for a sling, I slowly and painfully pulled my clothes back on, Pippin left the others around the campfire to sit at my side, his pipe held at one corner of his mouth. "Stars, Boromir!" he exclaimed. "Your bruises are nearly as bad as Frodo’s! Whatever did you do to yourself?"

I managed a smile for him, if a very small, tight one as I carefully pulled on my red tunic. My shoulder was throbbing from Aragorn’s probing. "That cave troll in Balin’s Tomb didn’t like me very much," I told him. I paused for a minute or two, pulling on my travel-stained coat and fastening the clasps. I remained without my gauntlets or arm-braces. "It caught me with its chain and threw me into a wall," I continued finally. I did not tell him about my shoulder’s dislocation, not wishing to frighten him.

Pippin’s eyes widened and wordlessly, he moved closer to me, resting against my right side. I draped my arm over him and he looked up at me. "Ouch," he said sympathetically. "That must’ve hurt."

I ruffled his unruly curls with my uninjured hand. "Just a little."

Aragorn was silent as he bound the bandages swiftly and surely around my arm, and then looping them around my neck to keep my arm in position against my chest. The bandages were tight but not too much so, and the sling brought some relief as it supported my arm.

Once this was completed, I looked up at Aragorn, and he down at me, and we stared at each other steadily for a long moment. Then I said, "It is your turn. Do not forget your bargain."

Aragorn’s face suddenly brightened with a smile, and I was astonished to see the years and careworn lines disappear entirely in a rare moment of companionable mirth. "I have not," he said, touching my good shoulder briefly. "Although I must confess that I had hoped that perhaps you had."

I smiled back at him. "Small chance of that," I said. "If the son of Gondor’s Steward must suffer the indignity of tending, so must you."

Aragorn sighed resignedly and began to strip off his upper clothing. "Very well," he said. "I will tell you where I have wounds, and save you the trouble of looking." He then pointed out several small cuts and bruises that marked his sides and chest, and the deeper ones on his arms, while Pippin helped me soak a few cloths in the herb-filled water.

Legolas approached us, unnoticed, and suddenly appeared at Aragorn’s side. "It is a long time since I have seen you tended to by anyone save Lord Elrond, my friend," he remarked with a smile. I could scarcely believe my eyes—the Elf Prince was jesting with Aragorn, like an old comrade!

Aragorn returned the teasing without hesitation. "Take a long look," he said, smiling in return, "for you are not likely to see it again soon!"

Legolas only widened his smile playfully as Pippin and I brought over the damp cloths. As he helped us place them on Aragorn’s wounds, I saw a look of gentle concern in his face that told me that they were, in fact, old comrades, and I wondered where they had first met. I added that question to the growing list of things to find out about my companions.

Pippin’s voice brought me out of my musings. "I think that’s done, Boromir," he piped. "Much longer under those wet cloths and he’ll wrinkle up like a prune!"

Legolas and I chuckled, and I saw as we removed the cloths, that already the herb had worked its magic—the signs of pain on Aragorn’s face were all but gone now, and he seemed quite comfortable now, even.

"Should we bind that gash on his arm?" I questioned, gesturing to the deep, jagged cut that scored his arm nearly from elbow to wrist.

Legolas considered it and sat back on his heels—somehow managing to do even that gracefully, I noticed with not a little envy. "Perhaps it would be safest," he said after a moment. "What say you, Aragorn?"

Aragorn opened one eye—he almost appeared to have been dozing—and glanced at his arm. "You’re probably right," he agreed, closing his eye again. "Bind it for now, and I’ll see how it fares tomorrow."

Pippin went to Aragorn’s pack to fetch some bandages and while we waited, Merry and Frodo suddenly appeared at my side. Aragorn heard them and sat up, opening his eyes to look at Frodo with a frown. "I believe we agreed that you would not move until you have eaten."

Frodo smiled sweetly at him and held up an apple. "But I am eating," he said innocently, taking a bite. "Why, look what Merry happened to find me. It seems that apples grow in all seasons here."

Aragorn directed a look of halfhearted reproach at Merry, who merely grinned and took a bite of his own apple, and then sighed. "Very well," he consented. "I must learn not to bargain with you hobbits! I always seem to lose."

Pippin came over with the bandages. He handed them to Legolas and then, with speed no doubt acquired by much practice, he snatched Merry’s apple and took a large bite.

"Oi!" Merry cried indignantly. "That’s mine, you little thief! Give it back."

Pippin grinned with his mouth full and tossed the apple back to Merry, who glared at him as he caught it but resumed eating it. As Pippin began to eye his other cousin’s apple, Frodo shook his head firmly. "Oh no, you don’t, you greedy Took," he said. "Go get your own apple. There’s a tree full of them just beyond those bushes." He gestured behind him.

Pippin gave him a sour look but hopped up and wasted no time in dashing off to find the apple tree. The rest of us chuckled, and Legolas and I turned to binding Aragorn’s arm. When we had finished, he sat up, looking refreshed, and said, "Very well, that’s done. Now I believe Sam has supper ready for us. We must eat quickly; we should try to get closer to Lórien before we camp for the night."

There was no more jesting between us—save for the usual, though somewhat more subdued banter of the hobbits—while we hurriedly ate our small supper, but a new peace seemed to have settled over the Company. Our grief for Gandalf was not less, but it seemed to have drawn us closer, somehow, and I for one was beginning to think of Legolas, Gimli and even Aragorn as my brothers-in-arms. For all their courage and mettle, I could not think of the hobbits as warriors just yet.

After we had eaten, we put out the fire and hid all traces of it, before climbing out of the dell and continued towards Lothlórien. Although we all, feeling eased and greatly refreshed, went at a fair pace, it was not long before the sun sank down behind the westward heights and dusk veiled our feet as mist rose in the hollows. With Legolas leading us, however, his sharp eyes alert for any danger that might be hidden in the darkness, we continued on for some three hours with only one brief stop for the hobbits to rest.

As we went slowly and cautiously along in the dark, waiting only to find a suitable campsite where we could rest for the night, I noticed Frodo quietly dropping back to walk beside Gimli at the rear of the Company, just behind me. Neither of them spoke, and the only sound to be heard was the rustling of leaves in the cool night breeze.

When Gimli finally spoke I was so accustomed to the silence that I confess I jumped in startlement.

"Not a sound but the wind!" he said, echoing my earlier observation. "There are no goblins near," he continued confidently, "or my ears are made of wood. It is to be hoped that the orcs will be content with driving us from Moria. And maybe that was all their purpose, and they had nothing else to do with us—with the Ring. Though orcs will often pursue foes for many leagues into the plain, if they have a fallen captain to avenge."

Frodo did not answer, but I saw him glance down at his sword; I had noticed the way he stiffened almost imperceptibly when Gimli mentioned the Ring, and he was still tense. But there was no warning glow of blue from inside the scabbard, and I could hear nothing out of the ordinary.

Either Frodo’s ears were sharper than mine or the sounds I was listening for (the tread of heavy feet and orcish growls coming up from behind) were different from his. For suddenly he cocked his head slightly to one side, as if listening closely, and then, his eyes widening in alarm, spun around as if to face an enemy, his hand moving to the hilt of his sword.

Instinctively I did the same, half-drawing out my sword, but though I strained my eyes, I saw nothing but empty forest behind us.

No, wait a moment… For the briefest moment I thought I saw a flicker, the faintest glimmer of two pale pinpoints of light, watching us. But they vanished too quickly for me to be sure.

Certainly Frodo had seen or heard something, for I could sense his unease and in the dim glow of moonlight his face looked troubled as he turned back around.

"What is it?" asked Gimli quietly, having also reacted to Frodo’s sudden alarm.

Frodo shook his head wearily. "I don’t know," he said. "I thought I heard feet, and I thought I saw a light—like eyes." The tone of his voice implied that he was not as unsure as he seemed—he did not think, he knew. "I have thought so often, since we first entered Moria."

Gimli halted and stooped to the ground. "I hear nothing," he reported, "but the night-speech of plant and stone." But he sounded unconvinced of his own assurance; he knew as well as I that Frodo would be the last person to exaggerate or imagine things.

"Come," I said, suddenly aware that all three of us had all but stopped completely. "Let us hurry; the others are out of sight."

We quickened our pace and caught up with the rest of the Fellowship, and walked in silence until at last Legolas spied a glade where we could rest the night. A chill had set in, so Gimli made a small fire, and we spread out our bedrolls close around it. Legolas and Merry took the first watch, and mine and Gimli’s would come in a few hours.

My sleep was uneasy, full of dark dreams, and by the time Merry came over to summon me for my watch, I had finally given up all hope of rest and was lying wakeful, listening to the noises of the forest. I sat out the majority of my watch huddled miserably in my cloak, my hand resting on the hilt of my sword. The night was quiet and cold, and I was tormented by thoughts of Gandalf and Moria. Could I have done something to prevent his death? I wondered. Was there anything anyone could have done?

No, I decided at last. None of us could have withstood the Balrog; even together, I doubted that we could have overcome it. No, there was no way for any of us to prevent Gandalf’s death. It was fate.

I was given plenty of time to brood on this and other dark thoughts, as my watch was uneventful. When Gimli and I were relieved by Aragorn and Frodo, I curled up in my bedroll as restless and despondent as I had been before, but somewhat more peaceful about my part in Gandalf’s death, at least.

I lay on my back, staring at the stars glittering between the leaves overhead, for some time, before I was brought out of my reverie by a tentative touch on my arm. I must admit that I jumped, startled, and turned to see that Merry had moved his bedroll next to mine. He looked troubled and slightly embarrassed, and did not speak right away, looking down and fidgeting.

I had never seen Merry look so discomfited before. I propped myself up on one elbow. "Merry?" I said softly, so as not to disturb Frodo and Aragorn. "What is it? Are you well?"

"Yes, Boromir, I am well enough," he assured me in a near-whisper, still looking down. "It’s just that I… well, I—I…"

I touched his shoulder. "Merry," I said gently, "what is troubling you?"

At last he looked up, and his dark blue eyes were filled with… what? Worry? Grief? Pain? I could not tell. "Boromir, you are a warrior," he began quietly. "You have fought the Enemy for many years." He paused, as if unsure of himself, and I nodded for him to continue. "Do you… well, you have doubtless killed many orcs and such creatures, but do you…" He stopped, took a deep breath and let it out slowly, and then went on quickly, "What I mean to say is, have you ever felt a sense of—well, of guilt afterwards?"

His words hung in the air. The question startled me; as he said, I had been battling the forces of Mordor for many years and had ceased to think of such things. But I realized the cause of his question—he came from a race unaccustomed to killing, and in the last few days he had been forced to kill, to defend himself and others. Just as I had learned, long ago.

I thought for a long moment before answering. "Well, Merry," I finally said, slowly, "it was… difficult for me, at first, after the battles. Yes, I did feel guilty. But not for the orcs; they are creatures of the Enemy, wholly corrupt and without mercy. I could feel no guilt for killing them." Merry swallowed hard and nodded, looking down again. "But for others, yes. For those beasts—the horses, even the wargs—that Sauron had forced into his service unwilling. And for the lives sacrificed to keep the darkness at bay." I sighed, looking up at the stars again. "I have often wondered," I was speaking half to myself now, "why there is evil in the world, why good men must be called upon to give there lives in the fighting of it."

Merry was silent, and glancing at him I saw that he, too, was looking at the stars as he considered my words. I touched his shoulder so that he turned to me. "But it is not for me to wonder such things," I told him. "I am a soldier, and when I am called upon to fight the darkness I must obey." I drew a deep breath. "That is my lot."

"But hobbits aren’t soldiers," said Merry softly, and for the first time I saw that tears stood in his eyes, glittering in the starlight. "Our kind are peaceful. We are not made for battles."

I gripped his shoulder. "No," I said. "No, you are not soldiers. But you obeyed the call to fight, did you not?" He nodded silently. "Then I do not think you should dwell on such things. There is no place for guilt now—it will cloud your thoughts and your judgment."

"But how am I to avoid it?" asked Merry, and it tore my heart to hear the misery in his voice. "I know that I may be called upon to fight again, and I know I must respond without hesitation, to protect Frodo, and the Ring." A single tear, shimmering like a star, slid down his cheek. "But I cannot distance or detach myself like a soldier. I am not meant for such things!"

I gently took his chin in my fingers and raised it. "Perhaps not, Merry, but you have the heart of a soldier. All of you Shirefolk possess spirits better suited to tall fighting men." I paused, releasing his chin, trying to choose the words that would best ease his heart. "But no, you cannot detach yourself, none of you can. Nor would I wish it. You must wait until the battle is over to grieve; if you give in to guilt in the middle of one you will hesitate, and that could be fatal. For you, and for others." Merry nodded slowly, and drew his sleeve across his eyes. "If guilt you feel, afterwards," I added, "you must speak of it to someone and ease your mind. Do not hide it or dwell on it, for it will fester like a poisoned wound if untreated. Share your grief with your friends, and we will help you to bear it."

Merry was silent a long moment, while I watched his face closely in the hopes that he would take my words to heart. Then he drew in a deep breath, and let it out slowly. "Yes, Boromir," he murmured at last. "You are right."

But when he showed no signs of taking my advice and telling me what troubled him, I prodded him gently. "Would you like to tell me about it?" I asked softly. He nodded, drew another deep breath, and then I listened silently as he unburdened his heart. Ever since helping to kill that warg on the night we were attacked, Merry (Frodo as well, he told me) had been plagued with guilt over the deed—even though it had been in defense of themselves and their friends. When I asked, slowly, if they felt the same after our battle with the orcs in Moria, Merry shook his head.

"No," he said, surreptitiously wiping tears from his eyes. "Frodo and I—and Pippin and Sam, too, I suppose—know well enough that orcs are evil creatures. It was either us or them; they would not have shown us mercy."

"Neither would the wargs," I commented mildly.

"I know that," said Merry. He paused, then added a bit more loudly, "But orc-blood is black, and warg-blood was red, just like ours!" He shuddered. "The blood from the warg that got on Frodo’s sleeve could have been his own—there was no difference!"

I understand now. The Shire, from what I have been told, is a land of almost complete peace; certainly no hobbit-blood has been shed deliberately. How, by the Valar, will our four hobbits, brave and willing though they might be, survive this Quest? Blood has already been spilled in battle—red and black alike—and we have barely begun. I could never wish for these gentle-hearted folk to become hardened and indifferent to battle, but neither can I bear to see them suffer each time we fight!

Sighing in frustration, I decide that enough is enough for tonight. Merry has already served his watch; he is near exhaustion already, and further discussion on this subject will only weary him further.

With another sigh, I lay down and place a hand on Merry’s shoulder, gently pushing him down next to me. He does not resist, but echoes my sigh and pulls his blanket over himself once more, moving closer to me. Sensing that he is still in need of comfort, I hesitate a moment, then drape one arm over him as I get settled beneath my own blanket.

"Merry," I whisper after a moment of silence, "I do not know how you and the other hobbits found the courage to venture out of your homeland to join this Quest. All of you have strength and spirit unlike any I have seen before, and I wish it to stay that way. More battling and bloodshed is inevitable, but it will serve no purpose to dwell on it now. Keep your focus on getting through each day as it comes; be prepared for anything, but do not look too far ahead, and do not despair. It causes men to grow old before their time," I think involuntarily of my father, and shudder a little before hastily ending, "and I would not have you hobbits age a day!"

To my relief, Merry laughs a little. "Too late for Sam and Frodo," he says. "They’re already ancient." He pauses for a moment, then adds, "I suppose I am, too. I’m only two years younger than Sam, after all!"

I chuckle and shake my head. "Well, then I shall pass on my advice to Pippin," I reply. "He is my last hope, apparently!"

We both laugh quietly for a moment, and then fall silent. Thinking that Merry has fallen asleep, I get comfortable and close my eyes. I am suddenly very tired, and start to drift off. But then his voice, in a drowsy murmur, reaches my ear.

"Boromir?"

I open one eye and mumble something like "Hmmm?" to let him know I am listening.

"Thank you," he whispers simply, reaching up with his small hand to grip mine that lays across his shoulder.

I smile and squeeze his hand. "You are welcome."

Merry smiles back, and then closes his eyes again and is shortly asleep. Just before I join him, I think I hear Aragorn say softly, "Well spoken, Boromir." But I am too weary to reply, and the next moment I sink comfortably into a dreamless sleep, my arm draped across Merry and his hand still grasped in mine. Despite all our grief and hardship, tonight I am at peace.

To be continued...