The Price of Pride

Elvish translations

Gwador – brother


Chapter 65


I quickly fell into the of of scout, being able to travel farther and faster than my companions, my senses stretching beyond the limits of theirs, while Aragorn was the rear guard, his training and time as a Ranger giving him a greater awareness of nature’s signals than any besides an Elf. We counted on the secrecy of our journey to protect us. If Sauron did not know where we were traveling, he could not send his minions against us. We were passing through Hollin, two weeks into our journey, when we had the first sense that our quest was not as secret as we hoped.

We had camped amid the scrub at the crest of a rocky hill, the sight giving us both cover if we needed it and a view of our surroundings. It was a good campsite and we had stopped early, to give the Hobbits a rest and to give Boromir time to continue their lesson. Sam and Frodo, as usual, were making dinner and watching Boromir tutor Merry and Pippin with the sword. Aragorn looked on, offering advice from time to time. Gimli sat behind me, grumbling, also as usual.

“We must hold to this course west of the Misty Mountains for forty days. If our luck holds, the Gap of Rohan will still be open to us. From there, our road turns east. To Mordor.” I listened vaguely as Gandalf spoke. I could not identify yet what it was, but I could sense a threat on the wind. I closed my eyes to focus my other senses, but the scrub around us could not offer any useful information. I opened my eyes again, scanning the far horizons, trying to see anything that could constitute a danger to us.

“Two, one, five. Good, very good,” Boromir called to Pippin as he worked with him on swordplay.

“Move your feet,” Aragorn advised them around the pipe in his mouth. That was a new habit, at least new to me. Just one of the things that had changed since we wandered the wilds together so many years ago.

“You’ve got good, Pippin,” Merry commented.

“Thanks,” Pippin replied.

“Faster.”

“If anyone was to ask for my opinion, which I note they’re not, I’d say we were taking the long way round. Gandalf, we could pass through the Mines of Moria. My cousin Balin would give us a royal welcome.” Gimli’s gruff voice caught my attention. Moria. The joint work of Elves and Dwarves, at least in the beginning, taken over by foul creatures, though Gimli claimed his cousin had reclaimed it. I shuddered at the thought. I was a wood-Elf, a creature of the wind and stars and sky. I devoutly hoped we would not take that road. I did not know how I would survive, cut off from all that strengthened me.

“No, Gimli, I would not take the road through Moria unless I had no other choice.” Gandalf’s answer relieved one worry, at least. Moria was not his destination of choice either. I rose, as they spoke, moving to the edge of the hill.

Gandalf and Gimli fell silent then, and I turned my thoughts again to seeking the source of my unease. I could still hear the clanging of the swords, but other thoughts prevailed as I concentrated on a shadow, just above the horizon.

Boromir misjudged his stroke or the Hobbits’ prowess and landed an unintentional blow on Pippin’s hand. He apologized profusely as he approached the two Halflings. They launched themselves playfully at Boromir, yelling “For the Shire.” They brought Boromir down amid much laughter. It was good to hear, the camaraderie that was developing between them. I did not know the state of Boromir’s heart, whether he had a love left behind in Gondor, but I hoped that friendship would help to be a buffer against the power of the Ring, if Erestor was indeed right.

“Gentlemen, that’s enough,” Aragorn said, moving to break up their mock battle. As he reached for Merry’s and Pippin’s coats, they each grabbed a leg and upturned him, flipping him onto his back, eliciting chuckles from the rest of the company.

I was aware of all of this, even smiling at Aragorn’s misfortune, but it did not distract me from my search. Something was out there, something that posed a threat to my friends and our quest. I had to identify it, to counter it, before it could harm anyone. Just as I located the source of the threat, I heard Sam’s voice.

“What is that?” he asked, noticing the same shadow on the horizon that had just caught my attention.

“Nothing. Just a wisp of cloud,” Gimli announced, obviously unconcerned.

“It’s moving fast,” Boromir observed, “against the wind.”

I focused all that I was on that shadow, stretching my senses to their limits, blocking out everything else. And I knew.

“Crebain from Dunland,” I called, having finally identified both the shadow on the horizon and the threat I had been sensing.

“Hide,” Aragorn yelled.

“Merry, Frodo, take cover,” Boromir added

We grabbed our packs, putting out the fire and doing our best to erase the traces of our presence, diving under rock and bush to hide. We had barely secreted ourselves in the meager cover when the flock of birds flew overhead. I watched them, anger in my heart at the way Sauron had corrupted even such creatures as these to his aid.

When the foul creatures had flown on, we broke cover, each wondering what their appearance meant for our quest.

“Spies of Saruman,” Gandalf intoned gravely. So I had been wrong. Saruman, not Sauron, was the corrupting influence in this part of Arda. “The passage south is being watched. We must take the pass of Caradhras.”

I looked up at the mountain above us, not sure it was an improvement. The mountain was known for having a mind of its own. Furthermore, it was December. The snows would have already started on the heights. Still, I trusted Gandalf. If he believed that we could no longer travel safely toward Isengard, then we needed to find another route. And if our choices were Caradhras or Moria, I would face the mountain rather than the mines. I had never met Saruman, but I knew of him from my father’s tales. Like Gandalf and Radagast, he was an Istari, the head of the Order, the most powerful wizard in Arda. And he had turned against his former friends and allies, aligning himself instead with Sauron. I had no desire to meet him face to face. The stories said that his voice could hypnotize even the strong-willed, bending the his his will. We were already being battered by the temptation of the Ring. We did not need another assault on our hearts and minds. In the morning, we would brave the mountain.

As I stood my watch that night, Aragorn came and sat beside me, pipe in hand. I could smell the leather of his duster, the scent of his sweat, all overlaid by the lingering odor of his pipe.

“When did you develop that habit?” I asked in Elvish, now that we were alone. I had spoken mostly Westron with him on our quest, out of respect for the others. I knew Frodo understood at least some Elvish, as did Gandalf, obviously, but the others did not. We had enough tension between us as we learned to work together. I did not want to add to it by excluding anyone from our conversations. With the others asleep, though, it did not matter, and we lapsed back into the language that we had always used together.

Aragorn laughed, one of the few genuine laughs I had h fro from him since we left Imladris. “While traveling near the Shire, many years ago,” he answered. I could hear the smile in his voice. “They grow the best pipeweed there,” he told me. “You should try it.”

I sniffed the smoke, testing its odor and texture. I could not stop the moue of disgust that turned down my lips. “Nay,” I replied. “I will leave that pleasure to mortals,” I teased.

He chuckled in response, a good sign, I thought. Perhaps we would be able to be friends again.

“I worry about what is to come,” he said softly, head turning toward the mountain that loomed above us.

“Caradhras?” I asked.

“That and all the rest. Those birds should not have been able to find us today, hidden as we were, yet I am convinced that they did, that their master knows now where we are. And if Gandalf is right, and they spy for Saruman, then, he can guess our plans. What other traps will he have in store for us? The Ring attracts evil,” Aragorn told me. “I worry what it will draw out of us, that somehow it will turn even our strengths against us.”

“We must guard against that,” I agreed, “each of us helping the other. I fear for the Hobbits the most.”

“They may yet surprise you,” Aragorn disagreed. “In the long history of the Ring, only one being has ever let it go willingly: a Hobbit. Frodo has no power in this world and no ambition to gain any. Hobbits are like that, taking pleasure in simple things and simple joys. They may not be great warriors, but their hearts know no bounds. Boromir covets the Ring. He wanted it for Gondor. He has resisted so far. I pray he will continue.”

“We will watch him,” I vowed. “We promised to protect Frodo. At the expense of our lives, if necessary, and we will keep our promise.” I hesitated just for a second. “Gwador.”

He smiled and clapped a hand on my shoulder before rising. “I should get some rest before my watch,” he said. “Gwador.” I kept my eyes ahead, focused on my watch, forcing myself not to watch as he settled himself for the night. Memories assailed me, of other nights of sharing watch, and all that transpired after. The night was chill, though not freezing, and I wistfully imagined sharing a bedroll again. I did not offer. The night was not that cold, and I did not want to push Aragorn. We were only just finding our footing again. I feared upsetting the balance.