The Price of Pride

Chapter 68


When dawn came, we were shocked to see no signs of the night’s battle except for the charred trees and my fallen arrows. Though we could not explain it, no traces of the Wargs were to be found. Footprints aplenty, but no carcasses. I shivered at their absence, much more so than I would have seeing the dead bodies in the light of day. This was more of Saruman’s magic, it seemed to me, though I spoke of it not.

We gathered our gear, eager to be away from the disturbing sight. We marched all day, eating lunch on the move and stopping only briefly for dinner before continuing. We could see the cliffs that were our destination. We just had to reach them before nightfall, if we could. All day, the howling of the Wargs had sounded in the distance. If we had to camp outside, we would surely face them again. And this time, they would know what to expect from us. I did not know what they could do against Gandalf’s magic, but I, for one, did not want to risk it. So I urged the Hobbits on, trying to keep up their spirits even when I could see their bodies starting to tire.

I knew the cliffs had to be immense for us to have seen them most of the day, but I was still unprepared for their size as we followed the Sirannon toward the doors of Durin that Gandalf said would be found in the cliffs. Night was falling, but Ithil had not yet risen, leaving us in an unnerving half-darkness that even my Elf eyes had troublnetrnetrating. The water was foul, and the trees, though old, seemed stricken, having barely enough strength to keep themselves alive, with none to spare for me. As we approached the murky lake at the base of the rock walls, I heard Gandalf call Frodo to his side.

“Frodo, come and help an old man.” Under other circumstances, I would have smiled at those words, for although Gandalf bore the guise of an old man, he had more strength and vitality than the rest of us combined. I could not hear their conversation, catching only snippets of words. The last, though, I heard clearly enough. “

“And against some I have not yet been tested.” A shiver ran through me at the thought of what might be powerful enough to test an Istari like Gandalf. I could think of only a few things, none of them good.

“Dwarf doors are invisible when closed,” Gimli announced as we reached the base of the cliffs. He began tapping the rock with his axe, listening for a particular resonance that would indicate a passage behind the rock, I later learned. At the time, it seemed only another oddity in a creature who was entirely too odd for my liking. I had heard tales of Dwarves, none of them flattering, and other than Gimli’s prowess in battle the night before, I had seen nothing to change my mind. In all fairness to my friend, I had not been watching for anything to change my opinion.

“Yes, Gimli, their own masters cannot find them if their secrets are forgotten,” Gandalf agreed.

“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” I muttered under my breath, ignoring his growl of displeasure. I can only blame the oppressive atmosphere of the unclean lake and stunted trees, and my worry over our impending entry into Moria for my crass comment. I knew that Dwarves were secretive, but that did not excuse such a comment. The dark look Gimli sent me made me feel guilty immediately, but I was not yet ready to ask forgiveness from a Dwarf.

We made our way along the wall as Gandalf searched for some sign. I heard a tiny splash and Frodo’s gasp as he lost his footing and stepped into the lake. I turned around sharply, but he had regained his balance and was moving on. That pleased me, as I had no desire to dive into the fetid water after him. I would have, of course, had it been necessary. I was just relieved that it did not happen.

“Now, let’s see. Ithildin. It mirrors only starlight and moonlight,” Gandalf said absentmindedly, looking up at the sky. Ithil had just come out from behind a cloud. As it did, the lines of the doors shone in the darkness. At the top was an arch of interlacing Elvish letters, with the outline of an anvil and a hammer surmounted by a crown of seven stars just beneath. Under that were two trees, each bearing crescent moons, and in the center, a single star with many rays. I recognized the tree of the High Elves right away, and the Star of the House of Fëanor. Gimli later told me that the anvil and hammer were the emblems of Durin.

Even as I read the words in silence, Gandalf read them aloud. “It reads ‘The doors of Durin - Lord of Moria. Speak friend and enter.’” At the bottom, though Gandalf read them not, I could make out the words “I, Narvi, made them. Celebrimbor of Hollin drew these signs.” It seemed that Elves and Dwarves had indeed been friends once. That reminder made me resolve to curb my tongue and to treat Gimli as an individual, not as a representative of a race I had been taught to distrust.

“What do you suppose that means?” Merry asked. What did what mean? I wondered. Then I realized Merry was still thinking about Gandalf’s words.

“Oh, it’s quite simple,” Gandalf told him. “If you are a friend you speak the password and the doors will open.” Simple indeed, if you knew the password. I hoped Gandalf had an idea, because Gimli had never been here before.

“Annon Edhellen edro hi ammen!” he intoned gravely. Gate of the Elves open now for us! It sounded like a good command to me, but the doors did not move.

Gandalf spoke again, “Fennas nogothrim, lasto beth lammen.”

“Nothing’s happening,” Merry commented. I shared a look with Merry, not daring to hope that Gandalf would be unable to open the doors. If he could not, that meant passing near to Isengard or through other dangerous country. This way, at least, we had four days of darkness and then Lórien.

Gandalf sighed in frustration, “I once knew every spell in all the tongues of Elves and Men and Orcs,” he muttered in frustration, pushing against the doors.

“What are you going to do then?” Pippin asked.

“Knock your head against these doors, Peregrin Took, and if that does not shatter them and I am allowed a little peace from foolish questions, I will try to find the opening words,” he snapped. I shared a comforting look with Pippin. The poor Hobbit was young, not even past his majority if I understood the ways of Hobbits correctly. He did not really deserve Gandalf’s anger. Not that time, anyway.

As we waited, Aragorn stripped the bridle from Bill, distributing the supplies the pony had carried among us. “The mines are no place for a pony, even one so brave as Bill,” he told Sam softly. I could see the concern for his friend in Sam’s eyes, but he understood that Aragorn was right. “Go on, Bill, go on,” Aragorn encouraged. “Don’t worry, Sam, he knows the way home.” My beloved Ranger, worried about the well-being of a Halfling and his pony. How could I not love such a wonderful Man?

I lost myself for a few minutes in the memories of our times together, before I had ruined things with my pride and silence. The sound of stones hitting water brought me back to the present. Pippin raised his hand, obviously about to throw another stone when Aragorn caught his arm. “Do not disturb the water,” Aragorn ordered.

As Aragorn spoke, Gandalf threw his staff to the ground, pulled off his hat and slumped on the rocks near Frodo, at the base of a withered tree, frustration clear in every gesture. “Oh, it’s useless!” he exclaimed. Aragorn and Boromir studied the ripples in the water with growing concern. I turned my attention that way as well. If we were to face a new threat, I wanted to be ready.

To my surprise, Frodo stood up suddenly. “It’s a riddle. Speak “friend” and enter. What’s the Elvish word for friend?”

“Mellon,” Gandalf said in his powerful voice. Slowly, slowly, the door began to open. I could see the surprise on the faces of my companions. We gathered our packs and entered Moria

Gimli was almost jovial at the thought of seeing his cousin again. “Soon, master Elf you will enjoy the fabled hospitality of the Dwarves,” he told me as we passed the doors. “Roaring fires, malt beer, red meat off the bone. This, my friend, is the home of my cousin Balin. And they call it a mine. A mine!” Malt beer was not my favorite drink, but if the Dwarves had succeeded in retaking Moria, I would gladly lift a glass in celebration of avoiding the dark. It did not seem likely, though, as we entered the murky halls. No lamps or torches greeted us, no Dwarvish sentinel or gatekeeper to challenge our way or send news ahead of our arrival. All that met the eye was the decayed bodies of dead Dwarves.

“This is no mine, it’s a tomb!” Boromir exclaimed.

“Oh! No! Nooo!!!” Gimli cried, rushing to the fallen bodies. I wanted to comfort him, but it was not the time. I grabbed one of the arrows from a body of a fallen Dwarf and examined it carefully. As I had expected, it had all the characteristics of Orcs. Specifically, the small, scuttling variety. I threw the arrow down in disgust.

“Goblins!” I informed my friends, fitting an arrow into my bow, every sense alert now for danger. Aragorn and Boromir, next to me, drew their swords.

“We make for the Gap of Rohan. We should never have come here,” Boromir said gravely. I was definitely beginning to agree with him as we backed toward the door. “Now get out of here, get out!” he cried.

Suddenly, the Hobbits’ cries turned our attention from the mines to the world outside. “Frodo!” I heard them yell, then Sam’s voice. “Strider! Get off him!” We whirled to face the new threat, whatever it was, and saw Sam hacking at a menacing tentacle that had attached itself to Frodo’s ankle. As we moved to help, a mass of tentacles came out of the water, striking the other Hobbits and pulling Frodo off the ground.

They were all shouting for help, voices crowding over one another. The arrow left my bow almost automatically, striking the tendril that held Frodo. Boromir and Aragorn rushed into the water, swords swinging with deadly precision, fending off the tentacles that flailed at them, moving steadily toward the one holding Frodo overhead. I fired again, and again, trying to help as best as I could. My long knives would have been useless against the thick arms of the creature, so my bow was my best defense. Finally, Aragorn reached the tentacle that held Frodo, severing it so that Frodo fell into Boromir’s waiting arms. As soon as Frodo was free, they rushed to shore.

“Into the Mines!” Gandalf ordered, for there was no way we could have skirted the lake and avoided the creature.

“Legolas! Aim for his eye!” Boromir shouted as he and Aragorn left the lake. It was good advice that I followed quickly. The creature pulled back, just long enough for us to pass again through the doors of Durin. Then, it surged out of the water, latching onto the doors, collapsing them and the entrance passage behind uAs wAs we turned to view the destruction behind us, I reached out for Aragorn, my arm going around his shoulder, assuring myself that he was safe. I did not even think about my promise to Arwen in that moment. The reassurance was all for me. As the darkness around us became complete, Aragorn’s hand squeezed my forearm gently. As always, the touch was electric, steadying me while it lasted.

“We now have but one choice,” Gandalf told us, light beginning to glow at the tip of his staff. I released Aragorn, not wanting the others to see the embrace born of my moment of fear. “We must face the long dark of Moria. Be on your guard. There are older and fouler things than orcs in the deep places of the world.”

We followed him carefully deeper into the mines, skirting the corpses of Dwarves and Orcs.

“Quietly now. It’s a four-day journey to the other side. Let us hope that our presence may go unnoticed.”

As we walked, the adrenalin from the battle began to wear off, and I was confronted with what would be my reality for the next four days: unrelenting darkness, broken only by the faint light of Gandalf’s staff and one torch that Aragorn carried. I hoped indeed that our passage would go unnoticed, because for the first time in centuries, I was beginning to doubt my ability to fight.