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...