OF SNOW AND STONE AND WOLVES
by Soledad Cartwright
Author’s notes:
Now we’ve come to the infamous Ring scene. I know it’s not in the books, but it was such an intense scene (due to the excellent performance of Sean Bean, who made me really fond of Boromir in the first place), not to mention how important it is for character development, so I felt I have to work it into this story, book canon or not.
I did it with great hesitation, mostly because this particular scene had already been written several times, by several writers, some of them truly amazingly done. I read all that I could find, in order to avoid repeating anything that has already been said. So, if you find the one or other line vaguely familiar, that had happened against my intention and means that I have failed. (Hope I haven’t, though.)
Also, I want to set straight a misunderstanding that popped up lately: Boromir can remove the collar with the Stone, if he wants. As we shall see later, he can make the magically enchanted clasp reappear and open at will. So, it really is a useful tool, not some sort of mental handcuff, binding him to Elladan against his will.
This chapter is dedicated to the wonderfully talented Sean Bean. Not that he would care if he knew, of course, but this one is for him, anyway.
Chapter Seven: Such a Small Thing
Now that they all agreed that they would not live through another night upon the knee of Caradhras, there still was the difficult matter of retreat to manage.
’’This shall not be easy’’, Aragorn muttered. ’’Truth is, it might well prove impossible.’’
They followed his gaze and found it hard to disagree. For only a few paces from the ashes of their fire the snow lay many feet deep; higher than the heads of the hobbits, as Pippin noticed to his great dismay. In places it had been scooped and piled by the wind into great drifts against the cliff.
’’We cannot go through all that snow’’, he muttered to Merry with sinking heart. ’’Never.’’
Legolas, who stood nearby, smiled at them. The storm had troubled him little, or so it seemed, and he alone of the Company remained still high of heart. Boromir admired his resilience and wondered secretly, what foul weathers in Northern Mirkwood must be common, if he lived through such a snow storm with so little trouble.
’’If Mithrandir would go before us with a bright flame, he might melt a path for you’’, said the Elf lightly to the worried hobbits.
It was a mild jest, intended clearly to lift the spirits of the little folk. Alas, the wizard was not by his best humour in that morning.
’’If Elves could fly over mountains, they might fetch te Sun to save us’’, he answered in a sharp tone. ’’But I must have something to work on. I cannot burn snow.’’
And yet you were so reluctant to listen to me when I advised to take as much firewood with us as we could!, thought Boromir, eyeing warily the two of them, uncertain of Legolas’ reaction. The Elf had shown quite a temper in recent days; a temper that did not match with his preconceptions about aloof and detached Elves.
Not that Elladan would have been anything of that, but in his case Boromir had mortal ancestors to count in for non-customary behaviour. Legolas, on the other hand, remained an enigma in his eyes: merry and even-tempered most over the time, yet quick to anger and clearly dangerous on rare occasions.
Not now, though. The Elf merely smiled over Gandalf’s fuming and simply peeled off his soft, greyish-green cloak to drap it around the shivering young hobbits who were huddled together upon Boromir’s shield.
’’Well’’, said Boromir, ’’when heads are at loss, bodies must serve, as we say in my country. The strongest of us must seek a way.’’ He cast a glance at Aragorn and pointed forward with his chin.
’’See! Though all is now snow-clad, our path, as we came up, turned about that shoulder of rock yonder. It was there that the snow first began to bother us. If we could reach that point, amybe it would prove easier beyond. It is no more than a furlong off, I guess.’’
Aragorn followed his gaze and nodded with new-found respect. Despite his own keen eyes and great experience, he would have been hard-pressed to find that particular spot, for in all his long life he always avoided to travel in high places at the times of winter. Boromir, on the other hand, clearly knew his mountains.
’’Then let us force a path thither, you and I’’, he said.
Boromir nodded and went forth, leading the way. Pippin glared after his hero in silent admiration. Aragorn might have been the tallest in their Company, but Boromir, little less in height, was broader and heavier in built, and Pippin suspected that he was stronger, too, at least when it came to the raw strength of the body.
Slowly, the two Men moved off, and were soon toiling heavily. In places the snow was breast-high, even for them and often Boromir seemed to be swimming or burrowing with his great limbs, rather than walking. He remainded Pippin of the ancient tales of ice giants from the North that his nanny used to tell him (and the other little Tooks) in long winter evenings in the Great Smials.
Legolas watched the struggling Men for awhile with a fond smile upon his lips, for it delighted him that these two at least were working together now, instead of their constant bickering (in which, in his secret opinion, Estel was not truly innocent, either), and then he turned to the others.
’’The strongest must seek a way, say you? But I say: let a ploughman plough, but choose an otter for swimming, and for running light over grass and leaf, or over snow – an Elf!’’
With that, he sprang forth nimbly, leaving a highly irritated wizard behind, and Pippin noticed for the first time that the Elf’s soft boots were little more than light shoes, and his feet made little imprint in the snow.
’’Farewell!’’, he said mockingly to Gandalf. ’’I go to find the Sun!’’
Then swift as a runner over firm sand he shot away, and quickly overtaking the toiling Men, with a wave of his hand he passed them, and sped into the distance and vanished round the rocky turn.
The look Gandalf threw after him could have melted all the snow that lay in the way of their retreat.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
There are times when being broad and big-boned and heavily muscled could be an advantage against being slender and graceful. Rough strength can open ways when all wisdom of the Wise fails. And being strong-headed sometimes can beat reason.
It also can be of use when one fears the cold kiss of Death no more. Accepting the fate that had been ordered for us can give a heart unlooked-for freedom. There is great relief in finding one’s place in the densely-waved tapestry of things that are to be.
I had the strength to fight the snow; and I had the mark of Death upon my heart as well. Thus I got to take the lead even before my King this time. What bitter satisfaction it was... being the one who is dispensable enough, I finally got to lead.
It matters little, though. I did it not for him or Mithrandir, or even for the fair Prince of Mirkwood who had just overtaken us, running upon the snow lightly and quickly as a big, graceful cat, leaving us, struggling mortals behind with a wave of his long hand.
He had no use of me.
Nor had that old, grumpy wizard; he always preferred my better-mannered brother, who was his eager pupil every time he chose to toss him a bone.
Nor had my King, for that matter.
Even if I lived to return to Minas Tirith, I would be but a nuisance for him… trapped between my duties as his lead servant and the pain of my own father, whom I still loved, despite everything that had happened between us upon my departure.
Father might have been cruel, but at the end, he was right. My feelings for my brother were twisted, my desire was wrong, and it was best for all sides involved when I left. I wonder, though: Would he had sent me on this errand if he had known that he would send me to my death?
Maybe he would.
Duty always came first for Father, and he taught me to think and handle things in the same way.
So when my King called me to force a way through the shoulder-high wall of snow, down to that rocky shoulder below, I obeyed at once, for it was my duty to protect the weak from any harm.
I was brought up to become the next Ruling Steward of Gondor, and duty was the first thing that had been beaten into my head – into my heart – by the heavy hand of my father.
The duty to lead.
And to protect.
To protect the lands and the people of Gondor, the withe city of the King – and the King himself, should he ever return; which, of course, no-one had truly expected during the last centuries.
Now, of all people, I was the one chosen to fulfill that particular duty again.
This should make me proud and happy, perhaps, yet it does not.
I still cannot trust him with the fate of my people.
Or am I just jealous that he had come at all, to take from me what was to be mine?
Mayhap ’tis better that I shall die ere we would reach the white city. He would go along with Faramir much better. They are very alike in certain ways, and our peuple would accept him better when the Heir of Gondor is no more.
I was beloved by our people, was long-accepted as their next ruler. They love Faramir, too, mayhap even more dearly, but he was never Father’s Heir – he would be no hindrance for the new King.
He would never become the reason for an other Kintwist in Minas Tirith.
I, on the other hand, might.
I do not step down from my place easily. Too long had I dreamed of becoming the Lord and protector of the white city.
I was born and bred for that.
But I am going to die, and at least shall not cause any twist among our people.
I only hope he understands his duty as well.
My vision is getting blurred in all that cold whiteness. The snow stands as high as my chin now, and it takes great efforts to go any further. But that point we are moving towards cannot be very far. We should be there any moment now, or we shall die and be buried in snow right there...
A surprisingly strong hand grabbed my icy figners, and as I opened my heavy lids with great effort, I looked straight into the worried face of Legolas.
’’Hold on, son of Gondor’’, he said, ’’for your efforts are near to bringing fruit. This drift is little wider than a wall, and you have all but broken through it. On the other side the snow suddenly grows less.’’
I scowled up at him, squatting above my head like a grashopper in his green tunic, relieved yet a little annoyed at the same time.
’’Could you not have carried at least one of the Halflings with you?’’
’’Alas, not’’, he said with honest sorrow written clearly all over his fair face. ’’I only can balance my own weight upon the fragile ground of snow… with even a hobbit on my back, I would have sunk til my ears. I regret that I cannot be more of a help for you, my friend, but even Elven skills do have their limits.’’
I felt ashamed for scowling at him while he only tried to help, but when I began to apologize, he only smiled that slight, eerie smile of his.
’’Save your strength’’, he said, ’’for you still have to go four or five more feet ere you can break through that wall of snow. I shall run back to the others with the good tidings.’’
He rose gracefully again and shot away with the lightning speed and easiness of a squirrel. I looked back to my King. He followed a few feet behind, trying to widen the narrow channel I had already burrowed into the snow. His face was deeply lined and grey with weariness, and for the first time ever since I had learnt who he truly was, did I fully realized that he was, indeed, less than a year younger than my own father.
The blood of Westernesse run deep in him, giving him the long life and the great strength of Elros’ line, yet he was not invincible. He might have been the last true Heir of Númenor, but still, he was a mere mortal, just as I was. Fate might give him many more years, yet at the end he shall follow me to non-life, just as he followed me through the snow.
And suddenly I felt pity for him. Harsh and short as my life had been, at least I always knew where I belonged. I had my family, my land, my people – and my destiny, laid out openly before my eyes, and though war and blood and great pain my paths had led me through, they were frimly set. Hopeless as our fight might have been, the Enemy we fought, the allies we had, were known and confirmed. I had my place and I filled it as well as I could.
But what might it have been like for him? Fostered by Elves, taught to live as one of them, yet never really to belong? It was killing Elladan slowly, being so profoundly different than his own Kin, but at least he was an Elf! What might it have been like for a mere mortal? How was he able to adapt at all?
Was this the reason he left Elrond’s house and joined the Rangers of the North? And how might have they accepted the pupil of Elves, leaving the comfort of Imladris, to share the harshness of their lives, their hard struggles? He spoke of having lived in Rohan, and even Minas Tirith, for awhile – did he thus of his own will or was he forced to seek out a place where he would blend in better?
And learning that the Lady Undómiel had given up the grace of her life to share his mortality – what could it be like burdened with a love this great? How can a mere mortal accept such a sacrifice? How could any one live up to that?
He noticed my glare and looked back at me in askance. I shrugged. Even if I were ready to speak of these things – even if he would ever be ready to do so –, this certainly was not the proper time.
’’Legolas says we are almost through’’, I only stated. ’’He meant we only have to go four or five more feet.’’
He nodded, eyes glassed over with weariness. ’’Can you still go on?’’, he asked, hoarsely.
’’For a little while, aye, I can’’, I answered, for though I was tired, too, he clearly could not have taken over the lead from me. ’’Let us hope our fair Elf was right.’’
And on we went, fighting the snow, the icy cold and our own weariness, for all our hopes lay now in the waning strength of our bruised bodies.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
The others waited, huddled together, watching until Boromir and Aragorn dwindled into black specks in the whiteness. At length, they passed from sight completely. The time dragged on, and Pippin became restless.
’’Merry’’, he murmured, still shivering, even in the warm nest of Legolas’ Elven cloak, ’’d-do you think t-they can b-burrow a way for us?’’
Merry, who endured the cold a little better, gave him an encouraging smile.
’’Do you not trust your hero any longer?’’, he asked.
Pippin glanced at him miserably. ’’I d-do… b-but it is snowing again…’’
Merry peeked out of their protecting nest and realized with sinking heart that Pippin was right. The clouds lowered, and now a few flakes of snow started to course curling down again.
’’Well’’, he said with false bravery, ’’It is just a few flakes, really. They should be back in no time at all.’’
An hour, maybe, went by, though it seemed far longer, and then at least they saw Legolas coming back. At the same time Boromir and Aragorn reappeared round the bend far behind him, and came labouring up the slope. Pippin felt his tired little heart jump with relief. They made it!
’’Well’’, cried Legolas, laughing merrily as he ran up, ’’I have not brought the Sun. She is walking in the blue fields of the South, and a little wreath of snow on this Redhorn hillock troubles her not at all.’’
’’’Tis easy for you to say, Master Elf’’, grumbled Sam, still making valiant – and completely hopeless – efforts to somehow keep his master warm. ’’But that ’little wreath of snow’, as you call it, troubles us wery much, if you understand my meaning, sir.’’
’’I do’’, smiled Legolas, ’’But I also have brought back a gleam of good hope for those who are doomed to go on feet. There is the greatest wind-drift just below the turn, and there our Strong Men were almost buried’’, his eyes twinkled with mischief by these words; then he turned more serious and added: ’’They despaired, until I returned and told them that the drift was little wider than a wall… albeit a thick one, indeed. But further down, the snow is no more than a white coverlet to cool a hobbit’s toes.’’
’’Ah, it is as I said’’, growled Gimli. ’’It was no ordinary storm. It is the ill will of Caradhras. He does not love Elves and Dwarves, and that drift was laid to cut off our escape.’’
’’But happily your Caradhras has forgotten that you have Men with you’’, said Boromir, who came up at that moment. ’’And doughty Men, too, if I may say it; though lesser Men with spades might have served you better’’, he added, with a tired grin on his sweat-covered face. ’’Still, we have thrust a lane through the drift, and for that all may be grateful who cannot run as light as Elves.’’
’’B-but how are w-we t-to get d-down t-there, even if you have c-cut t-through the drift?’’, said Pippin, voicing the thought of all hobbits.
Boromir looked down at him with a fond smile.
’’Have hope!’’, he said. ’’I am weary, but I still have some strength left, and Aragorn too. We will bear the little folk. The others no doubt will make shift to tread the path behind us. Come Master Peregrin! I will begin with you.’’
He lifted up the hobbit, leaving to Legolas to collect his shield, blankets and his own cloak, which the Elf did readily, running forth to prepare a sitting place for the hobbits.
’’Cling to my back’’, Boromir said to Pippin, and strode forward. ’’I shall need my arms.’’
Aragorn with Merry came behind, accepting the lead of Boromir once more without a word of protest. Pippin marveled at the strength of his big friend, seeing the passage that he had already forced with no other tool than his great limbs.
Even now, burdened as he was, Boromir still was widening the hack for those who followed, thrusting the snow aside as he went – like a giant from those fairy tales the old nursemaid of the Took-children was so fond of telling.
They came at length to the great drift. It was flung across the mountain-path like a sheer and sudden wall, and its crest, sharp as if shaped with knives, reared up more than twice the height of Boromir; but through the middle a passage had been beaten, rising and falling like a bridge.
Carefully, Boromir ducked and eased through the passage, and on the far side they saw that Legolas had already prepared the resting place for the hobbits, making them a nest in Boromir’s turned-up shield again. Pippin, considering, that the Man of Gondor carried this shield as an ordinary piece of his weaponry, while it was big enough for him and Merry both to sit in it, suddenly felt very, very small and unimportant.
’’I shall go back to help with the baggage’’, the Elf said to Boromir, when Merry and Pippin were set down and wrapped up safely once again. ’’No ill things would harm the little folk here, I hope. But the others must come back, as soon as they can.’’
Boromir nodded, and together with Aragorn, they made their way back to the others. He felt bone-weary and only wanted to get over with the mountain, with the snow and the falling stones – with the dreams that were drawing him mad. To be down from this cursed rock and head towards the Gap of Rohan – towards home, even if he was never to reach the fair shores of his beloved city again.
He reached down to pick up the hobbit who happened to be nearest, but once again, Frodo shrieked back from his touch instinctively, not even knowing he did.
Then his feet slipped on the snow and he fell.
And the clasp of that silver chain he was carrying the Ring on opened, as if it had a will of its own, and the Ring flew through the chilly air, glittering like a dragonfly, landing directly before Boromir’s feet.
There it lay, shining darkly upon the white pillow of snow, like a wheel of fire. Like a sigil of unevitable doom. All of a sudden, it became eerily silent at the mountain-side.
Everyone watched with their breath held, as the Heir of Gondor bent down to pick it up by its chain and took a close, intent look at it.
* * * * * * * * * * *
Suddenly, the Ring seemed to grow in weight and his gleam became more intense. Like the mirror image of that great, evil Eye, framed by fire, that had hunted me in my dreams ever since my first touch with the Shadow.
The whispering in my heart grew louder, shutting out everything else, even the gentle mental urge of my lover to turn away.
In that short yet endless moment of frozen time, there was naught else just the Ring and myself.
And it whispered to me of things I hid and cheerished in my heart all my life.
It spoke of the lost greatness of Gondor and of ways how it could be returned. Of our noble history, of our might – the proud heritage of the Men of Númenor, guarded only in the white city of Ecthelion any longer in these lesser times.
It whispered of blood and glory and of what might be again.
How we might overthrow the Enemy, clean the lands of his evil and make all people live peacefully and safely under our benevolent rule, when Arnor and Gondor shall be united and beautiful and strong again.
All it would take is to put the Ring upon my finger. To take my birthright, that was about to be ursurped by a stranger, back again.
For I was born and raised to rule, and I have the strength to carry this burden, for the good of all whose fate had been entrusted to me.
The Heir of Isildur, carrying the re-forged Sword of his forefathers that Was Broken, might fear to raise with the power of the One Ring, but what can a mere Ranger know of kingship and ruling? Not blood alone is what makes a King but strength and bravery and wisdom.
I am the son of the Lord Denethor, a man with the most unbreakable willpower in Middle-earth; and his Heir. I have the strength to bend this Ring to my will. I fear not to use it to regain our lost glory. And I am wise enough to know that it is the only thing that could beat its dark Maker.
’’Boromir!’’, the distant voice of my King calls out to me.
His eyes are narrowed in the sunlight, his face is haggard, as he watches the twist of the Ring on its chain, glittering with dark, unholy beauty. Is that fear on his face what I see? Does he fear that I would, indeed, put the Ring upon my finger, doing the only thing that could save us all; doing what he is much too weak to do?
What is he afraid of? Of the Ring itself – or of me?
I am surprised to hear my own voice in that deafening silence.
’’’Tis a strange fate that we should suffer so much fear and doubt over so small a thing… such a little thing’’, I murmur quietly.
’’Boromir! Give the Ring to Frodo!’’
There is a tightness in the voice of my King. He is afraid of me, I cannot have any doubt of that now. He is afraid of what I might become, should I put the Ring upon my finger.
He never feared me before. No-one of them did. They feared the Wise, should one of them wield it; Legolas even feared himself. But no-one of them had thought of the Heir of Gondor – the big oaf as they saw me – rising to the power that was his birthright and could be truly his own, due to this powerful tool.
Then I saw the hand of my King reach for the hilt of his sword, and I knew he would rather slay me than let me do what my heart told me was right – for it was something else than what he felt was right.
I swallowed hard, fighting back the tears of bitter disappointment. As I turned away from him, I could see all the others, watching me, and it made me very bitter, indeed, for it was clear from their faces that they thought I would betray them.
That I would be without honour.
A Man who breaks his word.
A thief.
Or a fool.
They understood nothing. They saw not that I could save us all.
And though I had the strength to do so, they wished me not to save us.
The fools.
I shook my head in despair and reached the chain with the Ring on it to Frodo.
’’As you wish’’, I said, my voice choked with bitter laughter. ’’I care not.’’
And at that moment, I truly did not.
Frodo grabbed the chain from my hand as if he had feared I would change my mind and snatch it back. I blame him not. He knows the Men of Gondor not. He cannot know that we always keep our word – even if it brings our own downfall to us.
And I swore an oath to protect him – and the Ring.
But my King – he should have known better.
As I bent down once more to pick up the utterly frightened Sam, I noticed Legolas, frozen on the spot, glaring in wide-eyed shock.
But, stangely, he was not glaring at me.
He was glaring at Aragorn.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Merry and Pippin were waiting with increasing worries, not understanding where all the others tarried. Finally, they saw Legolas, running lightly upon the snow, but his face was unusually pale and hard, and he refused to answer their questions, only urged them to get ready, for they must flee the mountain as soon as the Company had gathered again.
After a while Boromir returned, too, carrying Sam, who did not seem to be overly happy about this arrangement. The Man’s face, too, was pale and haggard and hard as the rock above their heads. He dropped Sam unceremoniously, as soon as he got to the far side of the cliff, and started collecting his things without a word – or even as much as a look – for his ’’little ones’’.
Behind him, in the narrow but now well-trodden track came Gandalf, leading Bill with Gimli perched among the baggage, which did not seem to make the Dwardf overly happy, either, if his grumblings were any hint about his state of mind. But at least they broke the eerie silence, making Pippin able to breathe again.
Last came Aragorn, carrying Frodo, who was desperately clinging to his back, as if he had just escaped some great peril. The Ranger’s face, just like that of the wizard’s, was deeply lined and grey with worry and weariness.
’’What might have happened?’’, Pippin whispered to Merry, who looked from one to another in askance, then shrugged.
’’I very much doubt that they are willing to tell us’’, he said. ’’Not even Frodo or Sam, I fear. And considering the mood he is in right now, I would rather not risk to ask Boromir about it.’’
Pippin looked at the worn face of his great friend and nodded in agreement. Boromir looked like an overly tired soldier, coming right from a particularly vicious battle. But there was something else in those now ice-cold, hard grey eyes.
Something he had only seen in the eyes of wandering Dwarves, fleeing from far countries, seeking refuge in the West.
It was the look of utter hopelessness.
Pippin could not even try to guess what could a Man so strong, noble and brave as he had come to know Boromir, make to lose all hope, but it almost broke his little heart.
’’Could he have some fight with Strider again?’’, he whispered to Merry, for by now they had learnt that there was some… tension between the two Men, although they knew not what it might have been.
Merry shrugged, and they watched as Aragorn – whom they admired just as greatly – passed through the lane and lowered Frodo to the ground. But hardly had the Ring-bearer touched the frozen soil when with a deep rumble a fall of stones and slithering snow rolled down the mountain-side.
The spray of it half-blinded them all, with Boromir instinctively grabbing the younger hobbits and protecting them with his own body, while Aragorn did the same with Frodo, cloutching against the cliff, and Legolas covered Sam. When the air cleared again, they saw that the path was blocked behind them.
’’Enough, enough!’’, cried Gimly in dismay. ’’We are departing as quickly as we may.’’
And indeed, with that last stroke the malice of the mountain seemed to be expended, as if Caradhras was satisfied that the invaders had been beaten off and would not dare to return. The threat of snow lifted. The clouds began to break and the light grew broader.
Without a word, Boromir grabbed Pippin and lifted him from the ground again. But this time he did not sling the young hobbit upon his back, where, once again, his big shield was hanging now, but merely held him in his arms. Pippin shifted a little embarrassed, for he knew how weary Boromir was, and wanted him to save his strength. Besides, the path was now much easier.
’’I can go on my own feet from here on, you know’’, he said in a quiet little voice. The Man nodded and his eyes seemed to soften a little.
’’I know, little one. But we can go faster when I carry you. And we have to get away from here, the sooner the better’’, he paused, then added in a voice too low to be heard by any one else, except probably the keen Elven ears of Legolas. ’’Let me do this for you, Master Peregrin!’’
Pippin still hesitated, not wanting to become a burden, but when he saw Legolas picking up Merry in the same manner, he finally gave in. Truth to be told, he was grateful for being carried. His legs ached and he was still cold, terribly so, in spite of the warm nest Legolas had built them while they were waiting.
The snow became steadily more shallow as they went down, so that even the hobbits could have trudged along. Yet Boromir stubbornly refused to put Pippin down, and Legolas, too, kept carrying Merry, pointedly turning his back to Aragorn all the time, which surprised the young hobbits to no end, for they knew of the Elf Prince and the Ranger being old friends.
What could have happened, wondered Pippin, that so obviously broke their Company apart? They were away barely long enough to even start a fight. He looked up into the cold, closed face of his big friend, but Boromir was avoiding his gaze.
’’Let it be, little one’’, he murmured in a voice so sad, that Pippin nearly began to cry. ’’’Tis better you know not.’’
’’Better for who?’’, Pippin sniffed, clearly hating to be left out of anything important. ’’For you? Or for Strider?’’
At that, Boromir finally met his eyes with that barren look of his, and said in a soft, low voice:
’’For you, my brave little friend. ’Tis better for you.’’
Pippin dared not to ask any more, and soon Boromir put him down on the flat shelf at the head of the steep slope where they had felt the first flakes of snow the night before.
’’There we are again’’, the son of Denethor muttered. ’’Two days lost, at least… precious days during which we could have made leagues upon leagues towards the Gap of Rohan. What a waste… we have lost time and strength and valuable resources – and for what? But they would not listen to me, they never do…’’
No-one but Pippin heard him, though. They all looked back from the high place over the lower lands, The morning was now far adwanced and allowed a much better sight. Far away in the tumble of country that lay at the foot of the mountain was the dell from which they had started to climb the pass.
’’That would be a long and painful march downhill’’, Merry murmured. ’’How are your legs doing, Pippin?’’
’’They ache’’, Pippin sighed, ’’even though Boromir had carried me through the worst places. And I am chilled to the bone. And I am hungry and dizzy. We would have died up there without the others, Merry.’’
’’I know’’, Merry rubbed his eyes tiredly. ’’I fear I cannot take much more, Pippin. I see black specks swimming before my eyes already.’’
’’Funny’’, replied Pippin is slight surprise, ’’I can see them, too. Maybe they are not in your eyes only.’’
The others followed their gaze. In the distance below them, but still high above the lower foothills, dark dots were circling in the air. They looked very familiar.
’’The birds again!’’, said Aragorn, pointing down.
’’That cannot be helped now’’, said Gandalf. ’’Whether they are good or evil, or have nothing to do with us at all, we must go down at once.’’
’’True’’, Boromir nodded, his eyes following the birds, instead of looking at the wizard. ’’Not even on the knees of Caradhras should we wait for another night-fall. The mountain has defeated us, just as I had feared.’’
’’I hope this gives you some satisfiction’’, said Aragorn grimly.
Boromir turned to him, that strange emptiness still present in his now stone-grey eyes; in fact, it seemed to have grown in the recent moments.
’’Nay, Aragorn’’, he replied. ’’It would give me satisfaction if we were safely on our way towards the Gap of Rohan.’’
’’That would help us little with our quest to find a way to Mordor’’, Aragorn said.
’’Mayhap not’’, answered Boromir slowly, ’’but it would help us very much to reach Minas Tirith in time – ere the city of Ecthelion gets under siege by the forces of Mordor.’’
’’We cannot abandon the quest, son of Denethor’’, the Ragner’s voice sharpened a little. ’’Do you not understand the utmost importance of…’’
’’Nay’’, Boromir interrupted, ’’’tis you who understand not. I care not for the quest. I care for Gondor. And so should you, if you wish to become our King by more than just an empty title. For it takes more, being a King, than simply wearing the crown.’’
Ere Aragorn could have answered those accusing words, Gandalf pondered with his staff on the frozen soil loudly. He looked furious.
’’End this! Both of you! We have no time for your bickering. Aragorn! Lead on, and let us go down now!’’
The two Men exchanged cold glares, then turned their backs on the Redhorn Gate, for none of them was foolish enough to risk the wizard’s wrath. So Aragorn went forth, and the others stumbled wearily behind, down the slope.
The feeling of defeal lay heavily on their hearts.
* * * * * * * * * * *
End note:
Eight chapters down, probably two more to go, until this particular story comes to its end. Stay with me a little longer, and you shall see the wolves after all!
I hope the Ring scene was not too bad, nor a simple repetition of anything that has been done before – this is the best I could make of it!
Also, I’m sorry that this chapter turned out so long, but there was no point where I could have break it without messing up the whole sense of it.
Your insights, as always, are much appreciated.
Soledad