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...