OF SNOW AND STONE AND WOLVES
by Soledad Cartwright
Author’s notes:
So, our heroes are still on the knees of Caradhras and the snow is still falling – a great time to reflect upon one’s life, or isn’t it? The question is, what our favourite Gondorian warrior has to reflect upon – and what good it will do him altogether.
The short song the hobbits are humming at the campfire is, of course, the same one Bilbo quotes to Frodo in Imladris before the Company of the Ring leaves, and is taken from ’’The Fellowship of the Ring’’.
Chapter Six: Caught Between a Rock and a Hard Place
Now that it was decided that we would not go on tonight, nor could we turn back, we huddled together as close to the cliff as we could. It faced southwards and near the bottom it leaned out a little, so we hoped it would give us some protection from the northerly wind and from the falling stones.
And, to a certain extent, it did. At least it protected our backs. But eddying blasts swirled round us from every other side, and the snow flowed down in even denser clouds. It was going to be a very long, very dark – and very, very cold night.
Sitting with my back against the rocky wall, I looked southwards, where my city lay somewhere far away, wondering if I was to see her ever again. Wondering what my brother might be doing, and whether my father had given up on me already.
He had sent me out on this errand to ’’redeem’’ myself, as he said, after he forced the confession from me with a cruelty I never thought he would cast upon me; I was his favoured son after all – the confession of what he had long guessed and feared. Yet what had I achieved that would seem like redemption in his unforgiving eyes?
I did find out the meaning of the Riddle of Doom, for sure. Yet it meant to bring home the Man who had the claim to take our city from him. If he was to survive his loss at all, he would turn into a bitter old man, full of grief and hatred against any one who had brought this fate upon him – me, before all else.
And what else have I achieved? I promised the Lady Éowyn to free her from the golden cage of Meduseld and give her a life worth of her braveness and nobility, a life in honour and glory as she deserved it – yet to fulfill this promise was in my powers no more. Thus, either I would have to break a solemn oath and stain my honour and that of our House, or else I would make her the spouse of a mere chamberlain.
That was not how Father intended our marriage to be. She was to become the White Lady of Gondor, Queen by all but the title, riding on my side to defend our city against the Enemy and giving me heirs who would follow me in the seat of the Ruling Stewards.
And I made an Elf warrior fall in love with me, the firstborn son of Elrond of all people – though how it happened I still cannot fathom –, and I gave in to his advances and my own weakness, learning a bliss I had never known before. I know I would never return to Imladris, never see him again save in my heart and my dreams, never hear his soft voice save through the Stone in my mind.
I understood by now that I shall need him all my life, short or long it by the measure of Men might be, but how could I hope that any one else would understand it? In the eyes of my own people such a thing was a shame. Yet I could feel no shame about it. No shame at all.
But what should I do if I survived this journey and Éowyn was still ready to wed me, even if I was not to rule Gondor any more? I spoke to her in unclear words about the reason why I could never love her, without revealing the true subject of my love, but that was ere I tasted true passion in my lover’s arms; and the need to touch his soul, to feel his unlimited love through the mystic bound his devotion created and the Stone maintained, grew slowly but steadily with every passing day.
I came to understand that I cannot be without this any more.
But would Éowyn understand? She generously accepted that my heart belonged to an other; it was not too hard, for she loved me not, and only agreed to our wedding for the good of our lands and because she wanted to be freed from her fate in the court of Edoras, trapped between the faltering steps of her untimely-aged King and the stalking of a man-snake who had haunted her ever since she ceased to be a child.
Yet should she become my wife, she would have the right to have at least my affections belonging to her, undividedly. Would she be ready to share even that, even if the other one was far away and never to come between us bodily? Did I have the right, was I selfish enough to cheat on her in this most dishonourable manner? Should she learn that I had a male lover who was bound to me closer than she ever could hope to become, would she still want to wed me? Could I take it upon me to trap her in such a marriage?
Twisted fate it is that a Man can love one, desire an other and be promised to a third one! Were I not in need for heirs, even if our House was to fall from powers, I wished she would turn from me in disgust and chose an other, more worthy spouse.
One she deserves.
One who could not only respect her, but love her and admire her and make her happy.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
The others huddled together with their backs to the rock wall, That tousled pony Samwise called Bill (what a silly name for an animal!) stood patiently but dejectedly in front of the Halflings, and screened them a little; but before long the drifting snow was above his hocks, and it went on mounting, despite Legolas’ efforts to sweep the poor beast clean of it every time and again.
Finally he gave up and slumped down at the wall, too, tucking Meriadoc under his cloak again to keep him warm. I grabbed Peregrin and did the same. Without us, the Halflings would soon have been entirely buried – and died, shorty thereafter, for their small bodies could not hoard enough warmth to make through the snow storm.
Peregrin slung his short arms around my neck (they were not long enough to encircle my chest), and I wrapped him up in my cloak more tightly. Soon his breathing became slower and deeper – a sure sign that he had fallen asleep.
As it tickled my neck softly, a great sleepiness came over me, too, and I was thinking of children again, heirs that I might become, and that mayhap, against all hope, it could work with Éowyn after all; and I felt myself sinking slowly into a warm and hazy dream.
//Cold water was caressing my face as I lay in that strange, shimmering boat again, floating on the slow waves of Anduin in the grey dark of a young, pale Moon, yet I felt its chill no more as I was listening to the rustling of the sad reeds.
A lonely Man I saw sitting by the waters of the Great River, watching the ever-moving stream, as we ever watch the shores nigh Osgiliath, which our enemies now partly held, and issued from it to harry our lands. But save him all the world seemed to sleep at the midnight hour.
When he saw my boat, he rose and went to the bank, and began to walk out into the stream, as if he had been drawn towards me. I floated within his hand’s reach, yet he durst not to touch me, only leaned towards me, and I knew his gear, his haunted eyes, his beloved face – it was my brother, the only keeper of my heart.
The only one I would never – could never – touch.
’Boromir!’, he cried, his voice full of sorrow. ’Where is thy horn? Whither goest thou? O Boromir!’
Yet I was unable to answer and the water carried my boat away from him, and I could see his face no more.//
I jerked awake in cold sweat once again. For though the dream seemed more peaceful to me than at that last time, I thought to read its clear message: I was about to die. Soon. For I did not look different, lying in that boat, nor had Faramir changed aught, save the great weariness in his eyes that saddened my heart beyond measure, and it also seemed clear that I would not reach the shores of my white city on my own – if ever.
A great sadness overcame me, for more than anything had I wanted to see the gleaming tower of Ecthelion one last time, and now I understood that it was not to be. Bereft of the one thing that gave my harsh life any purpose, bereft of the one I loved and, too, the one who loved me, at the end I was to lie in my watery grave utterly alone.
Never shall you be apart fom me, meleth-nin, the voice of my lover murmured softly in my heart. In grief and peril and even Death itself, I shall always be with you.
I did not even notice that I was clutching at the Stone again. This had to end. This was no good. I had to hold out on my own, should the others have any use of me.
I reached out through the bond and felt the Stone growing warm under my chilly fingers.
Let me go, beloved. You cannot help me. I am marked for Death.
Even there, I shall be with you, meleth-nin, came his gentle answer; then I felt his soul lightly touch my heart; and then he was gone.
I shook my head and tried to take a look around. The snow was still falling in thick clouds, making sight nearly impossible. Next to me Legolas sat, his eyes wide open yet a little unfocussed, and I knew enough about Elves already to understand that he was sleeping – or doing the closest thing to sleep Elves were able to do.
Elladan, of course, could sleep as I did, and we greatly enjoyed sleeping in each other’s arms after long hours of sweet passion, but he had mortal blood, too, in his veins… yet ever so often had I caught him in one of their waking dreams that gives all Elves that eerie look Legolas was wearing right now.
But he did something else, too. At first I tought it was the reflection of snow on his face, but after an even closer glance I saw that I was wrong.
It was not the snow.
It was him.
He glowed softly in the dark. Dimly, barely visible, but he did.
To say that I was shocked by the sight, would be an understatement. Never during the length of our journey had I noticed aught like this. Of course, he spent most nights up in one three or an other, but not all of them, and yet, never had I seen him glowing in his sleep. It make me think of an earlier conversation of ours, when he mentioned the powers only Wood-Elves still possessed among the Fair Folk.
Then I noticed that Meriadoc was still lying in his arms, wrapped up tightly in that soft, grey Elvish cloak of his, just as I tried to keep Peregrin warm, and I understood what he was doing.
He was sharing his body heat with the Halfling, regardless of his own comfort.
He must have felt me watching him, for his eyes focussed again and turned to me. The glowing subsided and was gone, the brightness returning to his eyes only. We both glanced at Frodo, who was shaking with cold on the other side of the Elf, in spite of the warming presence of Samwise.
But again, what warmth the poor little gardener could have left to share with his master?
’’Can you take Peregrin for a moment?’’, I whispered, only loud enough for Legoas’ keen Elven ears to her. ’’I need to speak to Mithrandir. This cannot go on like this.’’
He nodded, reaching out for my little bundle of a Halfling, tucking him safely under the other wing of his cloak. I wondered how long he could keep them warm – how long til we all were chilled to the bone.
I rose slowly, painfully (for my limbs stiffened in the cold and from the hard rock I was sitting upon), intending to speak my mind to the wizard, but stopped over Frodo for a moment, to lift him off the ground where he was crouching in a nest of snow. He stiffened in my arms, eyes widening with fear.
That hit me like the blow of an iron fist.
What have I done to deserve such mistrust? Sure, I spoke my mind openly at the Council, as I always do, but have I ever tried to harm him, to harm any of them? Have I tried to lay my hands on that cursed Ring? After all we went through together, after all I have done to protect him and his little friends, he still considered me untrustworthy?
I wrapped my cloak around him and carried him to the wizard, his most trusted counsellor – his cheerished friend, who still had not the decency to think of warming him or Samwise the same way Legolas and I did warm the younger ones. I was sorely tempted to drop him onto the lap of the old man (or onto the lap of my King, for that matter), but at the end, somehow I found the strength to restrain myself – barely.
’’This will be the death of the Halflings, Mithrandir!’’, I said, more harshly than intended. ’’It is useless to sit here until the snow goes over our heads. We must do somehing to save ourselved.’’
The wizard reached out to take Frodo from me and I handled him the Halfling without regret. If he could not trust me, I would not force my help upon him. After all, I had my own Halfling to take care of; one who was more than grateful for my efforts.
One who was something akin a friend to me… or a son.
’’Give them this’’, said Mithrandir, searching in his bundle and drawing out a leathern flask. ’’Just a mouthful each – for all of us. It is very precious. It is miruvor, the cordial of Imladris. Elrond gave it to me at our parting. Pass it round!’’
He needed not to tell me, of course, what miruvor was – I had tasted the warm and fragrant liquor often enough in the pleasant company of my lover, after all. Yet tasting it now, in this cold and barren place with no hope left, made my heart even heavier, lingering on sweet memories of what I shall never have again.
At least the little ones seemed revived by it, founding fresh hope and vigour for a few fleeting moments. But the snow did not relent. It whirled about us thicker than ever, and the wind blew louder. I felt its cruel chill creep till my bones.
’’What do you say to a fire?’’, I asked. ’’The choice seems near now between fire and death, Mithrandir. Doubtless we shall be hidden from all unfriedly eyes when the snow covered us, but that will not help us.’’
’’You may make a fire if you can’’, the wizard answered morosely. ’’If there are any watchers that can endure this storm, then they can see us, fire or no.’’
He did not give in readily, but at last he gave in, and my hopes returned. If naught else, a fire would save the little ones from chilling down beyond help – for this one night, at least. Beyond that, no-one of us could see.
I woke Gimli and we ordered the wood that was brought by my advice to a small pile. Legolas joined us, still carrying the two Halflings under his cloak, but it passed the skill of Elf or even Dwarf to strike a flame that would hold amid the swirling wind or catch in the wet fuel.
’’’Tis no good’’, said Legolas quietly; he offered an unearthy sight, with snowflakes glittering as tiny diamonds on his long, dark eyelashes, ’’you need to help us, Mithrandir.’’
The wizard shook his head. ’’You know I cannot. If I used my art, I would reveal us to any spies that might be looking for us.’’
’’And if you do not, in the morrow we shall have four well-hidden but very dead hobbits with us’’, the Elf shot back bluntly.
Though he knew probably best of us all the powers and the temper the wizard possessed, he still was not afraid to confront him if he felt the need for it. I could not help but admire him.
Aragorn came to see what we had achieved, carrying Samwise whose lips started to colour blue.
’’Legolas is right, Gandalf’’, he said. ’’You have to do something, no matter who might watch us. Secrecy will help us little when we freeze to death.’’
Outnumbered and assaulted from all sides, albeit still reluctantly, the wizard finally took a hand in the matter. Picking up a faggot he held it aloft for a moment, then with a word of command, naur an edraith ammen! he thrust the end of his staff into the mids of it.
At once a great spout of green and blue flame sprang out, and the wood flared and sputtered. The Halflings watched its merry dance with child-like excitement, and I remembered Peregrin’s funny little tales about Mithrandir’s visits in their land and the fireworks he made to enchant the hearts of the little Halfling-children.
I wish our children in Minas Tirith could enjoy such merriment and peace.
The wizard himself was not all too happy, though.
’’If there are any to see, then at least I am revealed to them’’, he grumbled. ’’I have written <Gandalf is here> in signs that all can read from Rivendell to the mouths of Anduin.’’
But the little ones cared no longer for watchers or unfriendly eyes. Their hearts were rejoiced to see the sight of the fire, and I minded no spies, either, for I felt that at least they would live through this night.
Resilient little fellows as they were, soon their faces lit up from the warmth, and I could barely believe my ears when I heard one of them humming softly:
When winter first begins to bite
and stones crack in the frosty night,
when pools are black and trees are bare,
'tis evil in the Wild to fare...
It was Peregrin, of course, with his irrepressible spirits, but the others joined him shortly, adding more verses to the old song they all knew. They seemed to have forgotten all the perils and hardships that lay behind us, and the even worse ones that lay before us, and simply enjoyed what little warmth our small fire could give them.
For once, I was able to change the old wizard’s mind – not on my own, for sure, though it came as a surprise to me that all were sided up with me this time. At least Mithrandir did listen to us, and the Halflings were relieved… almost happy.
The wood burned merrily; and though all round it the snow hissed, and pods of slush crept under our feet, we warmed our hands gladly at the fire. Only I could find no peace in its warmth; for it brought back the memory of that foul vision of my father to me, sitting on his own pyre, burning.
What message did that vision carry, unless it was some other evil wizardly from the Ring, trying to strip me from my sanity? Would my father try to slay himself in pride and despair, like the heathen Kings have done, under the domination of the Dark Power, rather than handle his spectre over to a King whose return no-one had foreseen, and, in all honesty, no-one had wanted any more?
Was the last Ruling Steward if Gondor, who had defended the white city all his life in honour and devotion and great safcrifices, to fall into darkness? Could I do that to my own father, bringing back the very Man to Minas Tirith who shall make his long, hard life bereft of all purpose?
Nay; at least this sorrow I would be spared. Should the Heir of Isildur ever set foot in Minas Tirith, I most likely shall not be there on his side. If the dreams tell the truth, this shall be my last journey, and for me there shall be no return. Never shall I hear the ringing of silver trumpets calling me home again.
Death does frighten me not; we knew each other well, from all the battlefields I had walked all my life. I always knew that one day I shall be the one who would not return. ’Tis the order of things when one lives under the shadow of Mordor. And, at least, before the end, I was given a gift few mortals during all Three Ages of Middle-earth had been given.
A great love had been giften upon me, one that is sung of only in the old lays of the Elves: one like the gift of Lúthien to Beren or that of Idril to Tuor. Of the Lady Undómiel and my King I know not, though Aragorn does wear the silver ring of promise upon his finger – yet it seems to me that at times his eyes watch me jealously, as if I had been given something that he is yet to become.
So nay; I am not afraid to lay down my life if our common struggle against the Enemy demands it. This is what I was born for; what I was bred for. This is my fate, my destiny, and I have known it and accepted it on the day I first picked up a sword as a mere lad. And I have prepared myself to do so ever since.
I only regret that I shall not be able to defend my city any more.
And that I cannot see my brother one last time.
That I cannot share with him my joy and gratitude upon the great gift I was given.
We always shared everything. Mostly sad things, for our lives were harsh, but a few good ones, too. Even after my guilty secret had been revealed to him.
He was shocked, yet he did not turn away from me.
We are brothers, and our love survived even the sad truth that I loved him in a way I should have not. It was one-sided and hopeless and utterly wrong, and he told me so in no uncertain terms, yet he never rejected me as his brother.
I wish I could tell him that at last I was loved. That I was alone no longer. That there was someone who cheerished me and cared for me and even had the powers to protect me from the darkening of my own heart.
I wish I could show him the radiant star that shines in my darkness.
Yet I know I shall not have the chance to tell my brother about these things.
For I was going to die somewhen along this journey.
Sooner or later, I was going to die.
I only hoped for the Halflings’ sake that I would hold on a little longer. They needed me, needed my strength. I watched them fondly as they stood, stooping in a circle round the little dancing and blowing flames. A red light was on their tired and anxious little faces; behind them, the night was like a black wall.
For a short moment, they had peace – even hope.
But the wood was burning fast, and the snow still fell.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The fire burned low, and the last faggot was thrown on. The hobbits watched miserably as it was consumed by the flames. Aragorn shot them worried looks and saw that Boromir was frowning, too.
’’The night is getting old’’, said the Ranger. ’’The dawn is not far off.’’
’’If any dawn can pierce these clouds’’, muttered Glimli, sounding every bit as miserable as the hobbits themselves. For all the stubborn resilience of their race, Dwarves were used to the hot furnaces of their deep halls and hated the cold.
Boromir stepped out of the circle and stared up into the darkness. This storm was worse than any thing he had ever lived through on the paths of Mindolluin or any other mountain of his homeland, save that disastrous chase with Théodred, but he knew the mountains well enough to feel the change in the weather.
’’The snow is growing less’’, he said, ’’and the wind is quieter.’’
The others followed his gaze weary and looked doubtful, for the flakes were still falling out of the dark, to be revealed white for a moment in the dying fire. For a long time not even Legolas could see any sign of their slackening, and even Pippin began to question his big friend’s judgement.
But Boromir was right. Suddenly, as the last pieces of wood had fallen to ash, they became aware that the wind had indeed fallen, and the fakes became larger and fewer. At last the snow stopped altogether.
Every one of them, even Aragorn, looked at Boromir with new-found respect. The warrior of Gondor only shrugged.
’’It comes such often in the mountains’’, he offered dismissively. ’’Those who are used to them, can feel the changes ere they come. What now?’’
’’We have to wait till dawnbreak’’, sighed Aragorn. ’’With the only path buried in deep snow, we cannot risk to move in the dark.’’
The others nodded in agreement and settled down to wait. Boromir turned his great, round shield upside down, laid a folded blanket into it and settled Merry and Pippin atop, so that they would not need to stand in the snow with their bare feet. Aragorn put Frodo and Sam on the back of Bill the pony, who seemed undisturbed about the whole storm they had to live through. The others, at least, had thick, warm footwear (save Legolas who wore the same light, soft boots as always), so they needed not to worry about getting wet feet.
As the light grew stronger, it showed a silent, shrouded world. Below their refuge were white humps and domes and shapeless deeps, below which the path that they had trodden was altogether lost. But the heights above were hidden in great clouds still heavy with the threat of snow.
’’D-do you t-think w-we c-can climb t-the Pass after all?’’, Pippin asked, teeth chattering with cold again.
Boromir started to rub his back absent-mindedly, his eyes going back and forth between Aragorn and Gandalf. Yet it was not the Ranger, nor the wizard who gave the hobbit the only possible answer – the only answer he would whole-heartedly agree with himself.
It was Gimli.
The Dwarf looked up to the clouded peak above their heads and shook his head in sorrow.
’’Caradhras has not forgiven us’’, he said in his deep, rumbling voice. ’’He has more snow yet to fling at us, if we go on. The sooner we go back and down the better.’’
Pippin shuddered and looked up to the grim face of Boromir who still was working on warming him up.
’’So all this struggle, the climbing, that we nearly froze to death… all this was in vain?’’, he asked in a small, quiet voice.
’’I am afraid so, little one’’, the son of Denethor answered sadly. ’’I fear Gimli is right. We cannot do aught but go back.’’
* * * * * * * * * *
Alright, we shall have one more chapter in the snow – including that darn movie scene with the Ring falling off –, and probably another one with the wolves (after all, they are in the title, so I cannot leave them out, now can I), and after that they will have to face the darkness of Moria. But that will be another story entirely.
And di: this is a canon fic (well, mostly), so I’m afraid, yes, Boromir will have to die. We all know he’s not going to make it beyond Sarn Gebir. Besides, I stated clearly at the beginning of this series that it will end with his death.
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