The Price of Pride

Chapter 66


We began our ascent to Caradhras the next morning, climbing steadily. Soon, the others had searched out their winter cloaks, pulling them over their tunics and coats. The cold did not affect me, any more than the heat did in the summer, but I could tell it was affecting my friends. The Hobbits, in particular, were having trouble in the snow. They did their best to walk in the footsteps of those ahead of them, but even Gimli’s stride was longer than theirs, leaving them to struggle on their own as often as not. We were halfway up the mountain, on the second day of our climb, making visible, if slow progress, when Frodo lost his footing and tumbled down the mountain. Aragorn, in the rear as always, caught him, steadying him and helping him to stand. Frodo’s hand went convulsively to his neck, searching for the chain that held the Ring. He found nothing. The chain had come off, leaving the Ring lying in the snow, halfway between Aragorn and Boromir.

Boromir walked back down the hill and picked up the chain.

“Boromir,” Aragorn called, trying to distract the other Man before the Ring could begin to work its temptation.

“It is a strange fate that we should suffer so much fear and doubt for so small a thing,” he mused. “Such a little thing.” I could almost see it as I watched. I could sense the evil in the Ring reaching out, entwining itself in Borormir’s heart and mind. Aragorn’s words from the night before came back to me as the scene unfolded before me.

“Boromir,” Aragorn called again. Though it was subtle, I saw as well the change that came over Aragorn. His muscles tensed, and behind Frodo’s back, his hand closed around the hilt of his sword. He had not drawn it yet, hoping that this could be resolved without breaking the Fellowship. “Give the Ring to Frodo,” he ordered.

Boromir jerked then, as if suddenly released from some invisible bond. As he walked toward Frodo, the chain still clutched in his hand, I let my own hand rest on the hilt of one of my knives. I did not know what would be the outcome of a battle between Aragorn and Boromir, but I had promised Arwen to watch Aragorn’s back. If it came to a fight, I was leaving nothing to chance. Boromir would fall to my knife in his back before he ever had a chance to harm Aragorn. Or Frodo.

The wind whistled around us as Boromir approached, the tension in the air so thick that it held us all motionless.

. “As you wish,” he said with false joviality. Frodo snatched the Ring from Boromir’s hand as soon as he was close enough, never moving from his protected place by Aragorn’s side. “I care not.”

Aragorn and Boromir stared at each other for a long moment before Boromir forced a smile and a laugh, ruffling Frodo’s hair, dislodging the snow from his fall. As he turned away and started back up the hill, I could see Aragorn relax, releasing his grip on his sword. I let my hand fall from my knife. We had survived the first test. It remained to be seen if we could survive the rest.

There was no wood that night to build a fire. We huddled together under an overhang, barely sheltered from the biting wind. I did not worry that night about what Aragorn might think as I pressed up against him, trying to share the heat of my body. Boromir sat tight against his other side, Gandalf next to me, and Gimli completing the circle. The Hobbits sheltered between us all, cloaks and blankets wrapped tightly around our bodies. As the night wore on, Aragorn scooted even closer, his body seeking the heat of mine in his sleep. My heart whimpered, but I pulled him against me nonetheless. Arwen had charged me with making sure Aragorn survived this quest. That meant keeping him from dying of hypothermia as surely as it meant protecting his back in battle.

We struggled up the mountain again the next day, fighting wind and snow as we climbed. Gandalf did his best to clear a path, but even then, Aragorn and Boromir were practically carrying the Hobbits, so rough had the way become. I scouted ahead, my feet not even sinking into the snow. We had just reached a narrow ledge, the next challenge in our path when I heard the murmured echo of words on the wind. I listened carefully, trying to identify the sound, the source of the voice, anything that would tell me whether this was a new threat we were facing. Finally, I was able to pick out two words: “nwalca” and “rasselva.” Cruel and bloodstained. “There is a fell voice on the air,” I warned my friends.

Gandalf immediately turned his own focus to the sounds. “It is Saruman.” Even as he spoke, rock and snow from the cliff above came tumbling down toward us. We threw ourselves against the cliff, out of the path of the avalanche.

“He’s trying to bring down the mountain!” Aragorn shouted over the sound of the falling snow and wind. “Gandalf, we must turn back!”

“No!” Gandalf replied vehemently, stepping forward and beginning to chant. “Losto Caradhras, sedho, hodo, nuitho i 'ruith!” He was trying to calm the mountain, to send it back to sleep.

The counterspell boomed back, almost before Gandalf could finish.

“Cuiva nwalca Carnirasse; Nai yarvaxea rasselya; taltuva notto-carinnar!” The words chilled me to the bone. “Wake up, cruel Redhorn!” he had said. “May your bloodstained horn fall upon enemy heads!” As the words echoed around us, lightning stuck the top of the mountain, sending a second avalanche down upon us. I grabbed Gandalf, pulling him away from the edge as the snow buried us. As soon as the tumult calmed, I pulled myself out of the snow, helping Gimli out as well. The others were struggling to do the same

“We must get off the mountain! Make for the Gap of Rohan and take the west road to my city!” Boromir urged, holding Merry and Pippin close against him.

“The Gap of Rohan takes us too close to Isengard!” Aragorn protested.

“If we cannot pass over the mountain, let us go under it. Let us go through the Mines of Moria,” Gimli suggested. There seemed to be no good solution ur dur dilemma. I certainly did not want to go into Moria, but after this display of Saruman’s power, I had no desire to pass closer to his reach either. I looked at Gandalf, who was struggling to make a decision.

Finally, he spoke. “Let the Ringbearer decide.”

Absolute silence. Frodo looked completely unsure of what decision to make. I did not blame him. Those he normally looked to for counsel were all looking at him. He had three choices, if continuing across Caradhras could be considered an option, and all of them were fraught with danger.

Boromir’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “We cannot stay here. This will be the death of the Hobbits!”

“Frodo?” Gandalf prompted.

Frodo looked at each face, his cousins and friends still sheltered in Boromir’s arms, Sam who was next to him, Aragorn behind him, Gandalf and Gimli, and finally at me. We all waited expectantly, offering no arguments. The choice was his and we would abide by it.

“We will go through the mines,” he said as firmly as he could. Even then, it sounded hesitant.

“So be it,” Gandalf replied, gesturing for us to return the way we had come.