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...